


Three Steps Back

by scoradh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1325269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s five years later, and all is not well... (Sequel to The Road Less Travelled)</p><p>Written in January 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_If our souls should meet again  
with tattered and worn-out shoes  
Do not despair  
for we have not learned_  
(Antoinette Kopperfield)  
  
“Al, put the pedal to the metal!”  
  
“Don’t call me Al,” said Albus, on reflex. His fingernail gouged a hole in the spot he’d been lightly pawing. It obediently expressed a blob of blood.  
  
Albus hissed in between clenched teeth. He’d been of two minds whether to squeeze that spot. The first mind was the sensible one: it reminded him that topical potions took a long time to work; that squeezing spots left scars; and that no one would notice _this_ spot when they had a mountain range of others from which to choose.   
  
The second mind was the one that had taken up residence sometime after Albus’ fourteenth birthday, much like a fungus invading a house riddled with damp. As Albus’ psyche boasted many such damp spots, the second mind cuddled into all of them, issuing cozy remarks such as: ‘Everyone will notice a huge, pulsating, pus-filled spot in the middle of your chin – it’s a cardinal sign that you don’t wash’ when Albus least wanted or expected them.  
  
The annoying thing was that Albus did wash – too much, according to the current dermato-Healer. She claimed Albus had clogged all his sweat pores with soap in his frantic efforts to turn his skin back to its non-craterous, pre-pubescent state.  
  
At any rate, his decision was now made for him. He wadded up some toilet roll and pressed it to the oozing spot, with the dull certainty that a few rogue fibres would undoubtedly stick there, and the even duller certainty that no one would inform him of the fact. His parents preferred to ignore his little ‘problem.’ Probably this was because when they were his age they were fighting the forces of evil on a regular basis, and didn’t have much angst to spare for acne. James thought it was funny, on the whole, and he wasn’t about to turn down the wattage on the humour. Lily wouldn’t even notice: she never saw much past the book permanently held in front of her nose.  
  
“Al!” yowled James, from too-close proximity. The bathroom door was wrenched half out of its hinges – Beating made James creepily strong – and James lounged against the frame.   
  
“We’re leaving,” he said. He was speaking to his reflection rather than Albus, and Albus could have sworn James winked. At himself.  
  
“I picked up that message,” said Albus, “somehow.”   
  
“Well then, let’s roll.” With this exhortation, James gave a final hair toss and Disapparated.   
  
Somewhere in between discovering girls and discovering his reproductive system, James had picked up a hefty quota of random, usually vehicle-oriented Muggle slang. It got on Albus’ nerves.  
  
By the time Albus stanched the blood-flow, Uncle Ron was tooting the horn. Albus thundered down the stairs, his satchel flagellating his spine with every step. Lily and James were already in the car when he rushed through the front door; no one was outside except Mum and Dad, who was Levitating the three trunks into the boot.  
  
“Albus, there you are! I was starting to think you’d fallen down the plughole,” said Mum. She crushed him to her chest and Albus breathed deep of her comforting scent for a second, before wriggling away.  
  
“Take care,” said Dad. He clapped Albus hard on the shoulder. “Don’t fight too much on the way there.”  
  
“Ha,” said Albus, “funny.”   
  
He got into the backseat with his ears still ringing from the car horn, and his eyes slightly watery. He’d like nothing better than a few minutes alone, to compose his tender feelings into something more resembling hearty manliness, but it was out of the question. Leaving home for school always hit him hard. The first hour was the worst: as soon as Albus met his friends, the pain began to abate. By the time he arrived at Hogwarts it was almost entirely forgotten.   
  
Of course, there was the trip to the station to be endured first.  
  
Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione sat up front. A thick pane of hazy glass separated their seat from the rest of the car. From the outside, it looked like a perfectly ordinary Mercedes Benz. Uncle Ron went to a lot of trouble to keep it that way.   
  
“Shut the door, shut the door!” he barked. As soon as they were on their way a Muffling Charm would be placed on the glass partition, but for now Albus could hear him perfectly. “You want every Tom, Dick and Muggle peeping in at the backseat?”  
  
“No,” said Albus. He slammed shut the door and the blinds came down, cutting off his last   
snatched view of home.  
  
Hugo nodded coolly at Albus. Rose didn’t even look up from filing her nails. Lily had already folded herself into a corner, effectively nullifying her potential as either enemy or ally.   
  
“Your spots are incredibly bad,” said Hugo. “Are you taking your potion properly? It looks like you pour it down the sink.”  
  
“Hush,” murmured Rose. “You know what Mother says about teasing the unfortunate and afflicted.”  
  
“‘Don’t?’” said Hugo. “I was just asking a question.”  
  
Albus filled up his lungs with air and let it out again in a slow whoosh. The metal window casing was cool against his forehead. He purposely didn’t look at his cousin.  
  
Hugo pushed back his fringe of heavy, strawberry-blonde hair. His eyes lit on Lily. The ancient tome in her lap obscured her almost totally. Only the tops of her tortoiseshell glasses could be seen between the book and her wild mop of hair.  
  
Hugo kicked her: just a light swipe of her shin, but it was enough to make Albus’ blood boil. He caught James’ eye. James immediately began rummaging in the box labelled ‘Travel Boardgames’ in Aunt Hermione’s prim hand.  
  
“Studying already?” asked Hugo. “I suppose you need to get a head start. Where did you come in the class rankings last year? Third last, wasn’t it?”  
  
“No,” said Lily, in her curiously hoarse voice. “Second last.”  
  
Rose rubbed her forehead. “Someone conjure that girl a cough drop,” she said. “I have the most _abominable_ headache.”  
  
“Rough night, was it?” asked James.  
  
“You could say that,” said Rose. “I snuck out to Joyce Trefoil’s seventeenth birthday party.”  
  
“I thought you hated Joyce Trefoil,” said James.  
  
“I do,” said Rose, “but Macnight Trefoil? Not so much. He and his friends snuck in Firewhiskey, so we had our own little party in his father’s study. Why didn’t you come? You were invited.”  
  
“Previous engagement.” James smoothed his hair, his lips curving into a half-smile.  
  
“Previous engagement my sweet _arse_ ,” said Rose. “Well, I hope she’s pretty this time. I need not remind you what a social disaster your little dalliance with Minuette Nestor was.”  
  
“Hey, Minuette isn’t that bad,” protested James.  
  
“Bad? My dear boy, you could plow a field with that girl’s nose.”  
  
“True. But she had plenty of other ... qualities ... to make up for it.”  
  
“Spare me the sordid details.” Rose laid her head back. “Make yourself useful and spell up a cool towel for my head.”  
  
James pulled out his wand to obey. In the meantime, Hugo was prodding his Port-a-Floo subsequent to receiving an alert for an incoming call. This having been dispensed with, he turned his attention back to Lily.  
  
“Show us what you’re studying, then,” he said.  
  
“I’m not studying, I’m looking at the pictures,” said Lily.  
  
“A picture-book? That sounds about right for your skill level. Let me see.”  
  
Lily shrugged and turned the book around. Hugo recoiled at the sight: huge, beautifully detailed colour plates of dissected birds and animals.  
  
“You’re sick,” said Hugo. Green did not suit his colouring, Albus reflected.  
  
“Mmm,” said Lily, adjusting the book so she couldn’t see his face.  
  
“Who wants to play Wizopoly?” asked James.  
  
+++  
  
The first person Albus saw on arriving at Platform Nine and Three Quarters was Celerity Malfoy. She made certain of the fact by racing towards him slightly slower than the speed of light, and wrapping her arms around his legs. Albus, well used to this form of greeting, had already braced his knees to prevent falling in an undignified manner.  
  
“Hello, Bubbles.” Albus scooped up an armful of squirming little girl. She clung to his neck   
as if they’d been separated for two decades instead of two weeks. “What’s new with you?”  
  
“I don’t know, what’s new with you, boo?” asked Celerity. She patted his cheeks, fascinated as ever by the bumpy surface. She’d once compared his skin to a cauliflower. As Celerity was a strange child who actually enjoyed vegetables for their taste, Albus was pleased rather   
than otherwise with the comment.   
  
“I might have Cherry Bombs in my pocket,” said Albus.  
  
“For me? Yee!” Celerity plunged one grubby hand into the pocket of her robes. “I brought you a present-smescent.”  
  
“You’re too kind,” said Albus, as Celerity handed him a pebble. “No, really.”  
  
“It’s a magic rock,” Celerity informed him. “Lots of chock. Scorpius gave it to me to protect me from dragons in wagons.”  
  
“Are you afraid of dragons, Bubbles?”  
  
“I read a horrible story, allory,” said Celerity, “where a princess was eated up by a dragon! Flagon, snagon, twagon.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” said Albus. “Most princesses are far uglier than you. If a dragon came here, he’d eat Rose first. Then he’d get indigestion and die.”  
  
Celerity giggled. Rose was nothing but charming to Celerity, who looked just like a butter-pixie. Rose liked surrounding herself with pretty people; Celerity was no exception. However, some whim on Celerity’s part made her take exception to Rose. She ran away or cried whenever Rose tried to talk to her. When he realised he couldn’t break Celerity of the habit, Albus decided to count her as a kindred spirit and leave it at that.  
  
Celerity smoothed back her hair with her palms, exactly how Scorpius did, before tucking her head companionably into Albus’ shoulder. Her blonde curls reminded Albus of how Scorpius’ used to be, before his sunshiney locks faded to dishcloth grey sometime in third year. Scorpius had lately taken to dying his hair blonde, but it wasn’t the same.  
  
“Is Gin-Win here?” asked Celerity. The unlikely friendship that had blossomed between Serena Malfoy and Ginny Weasley had lead to Celerity adopting the former as a second mother, much to her chagrin and Mrs Malfoy’s amusement.   
  
“No,” said Albus. “It’s Uncle Ron’s turn to drop us to the station. She’ll be there to pick us up at Christmas, though.”  
  
“We might have a dinner party before then, with a wren,” said Celerity. She sounded enthused, as well she might be. The Potter seniors were regular guests at Mrs Malfoy’s soirees, events which always threw Mum into panic and Dad into the doldrums. The entertainment value for the onlookers was enormous.  
  
“There you are!” Scorpius whirled round a pillar, breathless. “You little toad, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”  
  
“I told you I was going to see Albus, rail-bus.” Celerity put Albus’ neck in a chokehold to prove her point. “Not my fault you were talking to smelly pristine Christine.”  
  
“She can’t be smelly if she’s pristine,” said Scorpius. Albus had long since given up pointing out the futility of arguing logic with a six-year-old; even Scorpius’ inevitable failures didn’t deter him.   
  
“She stinks,” declared Celerity, “like a chimp.”  
  
“How do you know what a chimp smells like?”  
  
“Mummer and Gin-Win went to the zoo with me, free free free,” said Celerity. “Christine stinks like a chimp. And you smell like a tortoise shell.”  
  
Before Scorpius could lambast Celerity with a rational retort, their mother appeared. Mrs Malfoy, with her hair piled up like a champagne ice-cream, didn’t look a day over thirty. Up close, Albus knew there wrinkles were etched into the delicate skin around her mouth and eyes. That didn’t stop her being the most beautiful woman he knew.  
  
“Celerity darling, where are you?” called Mrs Malfoy.  
  
“Mummer!”   
  
Celerity planted a wet kiss on Albus’ chin and slithered out of his arms. Her diaphanous robes, periwinkle blue and cut in the Greek style that was painfully fashionable, glittered in the sun. Mrs Malfoy took out an embroidered handkerchief and scrubbed her daughter’s hands before leading her across to Scorpius.  
  
“Say goodbye to your brother,” she instructed. “We have to be going now. Scorpius, are you sure you’ve got everything? A few Galleons for lunch? Owl if you forget anything.”   
  
“I’m fine, Ma,” said Scorpius impatiently. Mrs Malfoy patted his cheek and Celerity hugged   
his leg. Even these Spartan shows of affection embarrassed Scorpius; he folded his arms and fixed his gaze on the great clock, sending a not-so-subtle hint.  
  
“Goodbye, Albus.” Mrs Malfoy kissed Albus’ forehead. The kiss was light and dry, unlike Celerity’s, and she smelled of flowers. “Have a good year.”  
  
“Bye,” echoed Albus, a good five seconds after they had moved away.  
  
“The way you drool over my mother is perfectly disgusting,” announced Scorpius. “Can’t you at least choose someone your own age?”  
  
“What, like the Precious Christine?” said Albus. Scorpius had once confided that Christine insisted on being called by pet-names like ‘sweetcheeks’ and ‘sugarplum.’ Albus only used the information in retaliation, such as when Scorpius insinuated that Albus fancied his mother.  
  
Scorpius drew back his top lip, exposing his rather long front teeth in a way that made him look like an irritated pony. It was a flag of truce. “Do you think that child is ever going to learn to speak properly?”  
  
“She can speak properly.” Albus was tired of this argument as well; too tired to come up with an original angle. “She just likes the way the words sound.”  
  
“She sounds like an idiot,” said Scorpius. “But she never does it around Da, and Ma pretends to like it.”  
  
“Maybe she’s not pretending. Maybe she thinks it’s cute.”  
  
“And maybe she’s soft in the head, although that’s less of a supposition than a cold hard fact.” Scorpius sighed.   
  
Albus bent to retrieve his luggage, which lay toppled and forgotten after Celerity’s attack. When he straightened up again, Scorpius silently took a bag from him and lead him to their compartment.  
  
Rambo was already in situ, his head bent over a crossword book. His pumpkin-round face broke into a jack o’lantern grin when he spotted Albus.  
  
“How are you, mate?” he asked. “Mum sent you a bag of M&Ms I’ll fetch it down for you once I’ve finished this.”  
  
Albus peered over Rambo’s shoulder. Only two words remained to be filled in. Although the clues were Dutch to Albus – all nonsense like _Found ermine, deer hides damaged_ – Rambo had probably solved the previous twenty-four since sitting down on the train.  
  
“Tell her thanks when you write,” said Albus. He turned to Scorpius. “I don’t know why she always sends along food. Mum packs enough to feed an army, and there’s always the trolley.”  
  
“Probably thinks you need fattening up.” Scorpius pinched one of Albus’ elbows, which were admittedly rather bony and pokeish. “You’d be better off leaving out the chocolate, though. All that hydrogenated fat can’t be good for your skin.”  
  
Albus pressed his lips shut. Behind them, his jaw ached with the effort of clenching his teeth. He took the window seat opposite Rambo and stared out, willing down the half-angry, half-homesick tears.  
  
Rose and James were still on the platform. Hugo was a few feet away, rocking on his heels with his hands clasped behind his back as he pontificated to his friends-slash-followers. Albus could put names to one or two of the so-called ‘popular’ crowd. There was Joyce Trefoil, whose teeth were bleached so white James had taken to conjuring sunglasses whenever he saw her coming; she didn’t get the joke. Her brother Macnight had his arm slung low around Rose’s waist. While Albus watched, Macnight’s fingers crept southwards.   
  
Rose laughed at something James said. The hem of her mini-dress fluttered in the breeze, a hairsbreath beneath Macnight’s squeezing hand. The big navy circles printed on the red silk hurt Albus’ eyes. He shut them.   
  
When he opened them again, the group was moving. James led, with Macnight and Rose in her thigh-high boots close behind. Their movement left a gap that was soon filled with a far more welcome sight: the Abbott twins.  
  
Scorpius stepped across to the window. “Ye gods, what _has_ Titania done to her hair?” he murmured.  
  
Albus yanked up the sash of the window and leaned out. “Hey, Ti! Norma! Over here!” He waved frantically. On catching sight of him Titania returned the gesture with gusto. Norma just raised a hand, as if she were feigning off paparazzi.   
  
“Don’t lean out so far, you’ll fall on the tracks.” Scorpius tugged on Albus’ collar.   
  
“The tracks are a whole foot down,” said Albus. “I doubt I’d do lasting damage.”  
  
“You should be more careful.”  
  
“Look, I’m not allergic to _iron_. Chill out.”   
  
“Does anyone have an idea what a ‘chaperone shredded corset’ could be?” asked Rambo.   
  
“Not a pig’s notion,” said Scorpius.   
  
At that moment, Titania burst into the carriage. Albus could see clearly why her hair aroused comment from Scorpius, who was sadly inclined to priggishness. She’d dyed violet streaks into her dark-brown mane, and pinned it up with hairclips made out of pink feathers. Her street-clothes were equally outrageous and mis-matched: a black t-shirt with a bulldog’s head picked out in diamante chips, paired with red and purple striped trousers. She looked like she’d been getting fashion tips from a lunatic, or Morse Lovegood.  
  
By contrast, Norma had the appearance of a sober attorney. Her one concession to the warm weather was her cream linen skirt; everything else, from her tweed bakerboy cap to her sensible leather mules, whispered restraint.   
  
Norma immediately cleaved to Rambo’s side. “Look what I brought,” she said, in tones of high glee. She reverently withdrew from her backpack a garishly coloured magazine, which had the good fortune to be called ‘The Bumper Book of Cryptic Crossword Puzzles.’  
  
“Awesome!” said Rambo. “This’ll keep us going for the whole journey.”  
  
“I know. It’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“Are you two seriously going to have, like, a crossword party in here?” Scorpius eyed them askance. “If so, I’m gone.”  
  
“Don’t you have Prefect duties anyway?” asked Albus. “Ones that you have to do? Now?”  
  
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Scorpius crouched, eyeing his reflection in the window. After a few seconds of conscientious patting, he was satisfied. “I suppose I’ll see you later.”  
  
“Don’t put yourself out or anything,” said Albus. He glared at Scorpius’ back as he left, envy for those broad shoulders mixed up with the tumult of emotions currently housed in his stomach.  
  
“I swear, every year that boy gets more insufferable,” said Titania cheerfully. “If he gets made Head Boy I’m quitting school in protest. Anything for eating? By the way, Albus, you’ve got some tissue on your face.”  
  
Albus scratched the offending article off his face, relishing the painful pulsations. “Rambo has some M&Ms,” he said. “Want to share?”  
  
+++  
  
Albus was playing a raucous game of Exploding Snap with Titania when his Port-a-Floo went off.  
  
James had begged and pleaded, cajoled and threatened, for six long months, all in the name of owning a Port-a-Floo. Mum had been all for it. She used her Port – a fortieth birthday present from Mrs Malfoy – at least sixty times a day, calling friends and arranging the mysterious things that went on behind closed laundry doors. Dad, on the other hand, was reluctant. Albus privately thought this might have something to do with the Granger-Weasleys and the way they never looked up from the little green flames every time they came for a visit.  
  
Albus knew his family wasn’t poor, but he also knew it wasn’t as rich as Rose and Hugo’s, either. From bits of snatched conversations, heard before the doors were firmly shut, he gathered that Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione were paid a stipend by the Ministry on top of their salaries, for services rendered to wizardkind. Dad, however, refused to take the Ministry’s ‘dirt money.’ It was all tangled up in the Great War, as most confusing and distasteful things were. Dad was a lot less wealthy now than when he was young, for what reason Albus couldn’t fathom.   
  
In the end, Dad worked overtime for a few months and not alone James, but also Lily and Albus, ended up with Ports.   
  
For a few days Albus was delighted to own such an elite magical object. But once he’d altered all the settings, so that the fire glowed blue when not in use and the flames crackled the tune of ‘Merlin’s Balls’ when a call was in-coming, the novelty wore off. It wore off all the quicker because Albus had little actual use for a Port-a-Floo. The twins could not afford even one between them, Rambo hadn’t yet designed a viable interface between the Ports and his Muggle mobile phone, and as for Scorpius...  
  
Scorpius’ communication skills were as subject to his fits and whims as anything else. Malfoy Manor was Unplottable, which was his excuse whenever a letter ‘went astray,’ either coming or going. Trying to contact him by Port was an exercise doomed to failure ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent, the call would be cut-off midway with no explanation ever given, or else would be dominated by long silences when it seemed Scorpius had taken his finger out of the flame and simply wandered off to do something else.  
  
Albus recognised the current caller as Lily, because the flames were flaring red. (James was black, Mum gold; Dad still refused to buy a Port for himself.)   
  
“Ha!” said Titania, as she won the round of Snap by tint of Albus’ distraction.   
  
“Lily, are you there?” asked Albus. He pulled the wheel slightly; it was taut, the connection still open.   
  
“Did you know that farm-raised turkeys drown if they go outside in the rain?” Lily’s growl was barely audible above Titania’s crows of triumph and Rambo and Norma’s conversation about xenophobia.   
  
“No,” said Albus. “Sounds like a tough break. Listen, do you want to come sit in our carriage?” He knew Lily would be by herself otherwise; or worse, stuck in a corner while   
other kids alternately teased and ignored her.   
  
When he heard no reply, Albus pulled the wheel again. It trundled freely, the spokes slack. Lily had taken her finger out of the fire.  
  
“Who was that?” asked Titania, when her exultant victory raised no corresponding ire in Albus.  
  
“Lily.” Albus frowned down at his Port. He thought about trying to call Lily back, but for all he knew she’d just wanted to tell him about turkeys. Non-sequiturs were her main contribution to any conversation.  
  
“She brush her hair yet?” inquired Titania. “Please say no; I’ve got five Galleons going on seven years straight.”  
  
“I wouldn’t know,” said Albus. “She doesn’t let anyone in her room. And what do you mean, five Galleons? You swore you wouldn’t take part in that betting pool!”  
  
“Did I say five Galleons?” Titania stuffed her mouth full of M&Ms. “Slip of the tongue. I was thinking about another bet.”  
  
“You fool, how many have you laid? Templeton Gudgeon cooks the books. You won’t see a Sickle of your prize money even if you win.”  
  
“Hark at you, seasoned gambler,” said Titania. “You know an awful lot about it for someone who doesn’t bet.”  
  
Albus was about to reply when three raps came at the door, which was then opened by the knocker without waiting for an invitation.   
  
Christine Ohtori’s pretty face peered around the door. She seemed reluctant to actually step inside, as if the general scorn for the compartment’s inhabitants – perfectly visible in every line around her pinched mouth – would infect her if she got too close.  
  
“Have you seen Scorpius?” she asked the room in general. Norma and Rambo didn’t even look up. Titania shrugged and continued to shovel M&Ms into her mouth. As usual, it fell to Albus’ lot to talk to the girl. He thought this dreadfully unfair, considering that out of all of them, he disliked Scorpius’ girlfriend the most.  
  
“Not lately,” said Albus. “He went to the Prefect’s compartment before we left London.”  
  
“Well, he’s not there now,” said Christine, as if this was Albus’ personal fault. “He hasn’t been back here at all?”  
  
“No,” said Albus. He restrained himself from adding, ‘not since we poked his eyes out with a quill and stuffed him under the seats to rot.’ Christine didn’t have a strong grasp on the concept of sarcasm. It was wasted on her except for the times when she took offence to it, and even that was hit-and-miss.  
  
“Tell him I want to see him _immediately_ , when he turns up,” said Christine.   
  
“Will do,” said Albus, jerkily, his voice muffled from biting the inside of his cheek.   
  
As Christine turned to flounce out, Albus saw something crushed and vulnerable in her face.   
It was quickly invaded by haughty legions, but Albus couldn’t help feeling a mite sorry for the girl. It occurred to him that Scorpius had never once, in their six-year relationship, failed to meet up with Christine on the train to Hogwarts for some quality snogging time. That they were nearly there by now and Scorpius hadn’t yet sought her out bespoke something rotten in the state of Denmark.  
  
Scorpius’ and Christine’s fights were frequent and infamous. To be precise, they were Christine’s fights: she’d storm and rage over some real or imagined slight, while Scorpius weathered it like an unsmiling stone. The fights never been serious enough to constitute a break-up, and Scorpius’ friends had long since given up hope of ever being rid of her. The idea that the ‘and’ could be permanently scratched from ‘Scorpius-and-Christine’ was now an almost shocking one to Albus.  
  
Then again, Albus mused, Scorpius had been acting strangely for a while. They’d fought tooth and nail to be able to visit each other’s houses for a week each summer, yet this year it had been a complete waste of time. When Albus arrived at Malfoy Manor, he hadn’t even seen Scorpius until late the following morning. During the visit Scorpius spent most of his time in his room, mooning around writing letters, while Albus played with Celerity and acted guinea-pig to Mrs Malfoy’s cake-making experiments.  
  
“Scorpius used to love doing this,” she’d said.  
  
Albus expected Scorpius to perk up when he came to Godric’s Hollow, if only out of the politeness he owed as a barely-tolerated guest. Yet, while he was more visible, he still managed to be absent. He appropriated the hammock in the garden and read his way through the meagre Potter library. After two days Albus wished he’d never come, in between longing for the lost days of bygone summers, when a week wasn’t long enough to build all the forts and play all the games they wanted.   
  
Of course, they were a little old for forts now, and there was no space to play Quidditch in Godric’s Hollow; but Albus felt Scorpius could at least have made an effort. In the end Albus left him to his own devices and went on doing whatever he did when Scorpius wasn’t visiting. The only surprise was that Albus missed Scorpius as much as ever when he left. It seemed silly to miss something that hadn’t really been there in the first place.  
  
It wasn’t as if Scorpius’ low mood could be blamed on his OWL exam results. Albus knew Scorpius had done brilliantly – although Mrs Malfoy had told him; Scorpius had not breathed a word on the subject. Albus’ own results were respectable, if not as good as he’d hoped, but that was yet another thing he couldn’t tell Scorpius now. Norma and Titania had both got exactly what they’d expected, and Rambo was top of the year.  
  
Albus shrugged off his gloomy thoughts and turned back to the card game. You knew where you were with cards. They didn’t all of a sudden decide they were going to be chequers, which was what Albus liked about them.  
  
He and Titania were at a ten-all draw, both down half an eyebrow, when Norma said, “What ho, we’ve arrived.” They all clambered over the seats to the window for a first view of Hogwarts, lit up like a firework cake. Albus felt a bone-deep thrum of satisfaction, which forced out the last dredges of self-pitying homesickness. It would return to prey on him whenever he failed a test, or had a relapse, or looked in the mirror, but for now he was simply happy to be back.  
  
+++  
  
Scorpius caught up with Albus as he straggled into the Great Hall after a gaggle of sixth-years. He’d hung back at the train station to avoid his cousins and ended up riding in a carriage with two strangers and Templeton Gudgeon, who kept egging him to bet on whether the carriage would overturn before they got to the gates of Hogwarts.   
  
“Hello, stranger.” Scorpius bumped shoulders with Albus.   
  
“You look pleased with yourself.” Albus took in his friend’s windswept hair and the high colour in his cheeks. It took more than a night-time jaunt to make Scorpius this elated; for one thing, he was scared of the dark.  
  
“And why not? I have plenty to be pleased about.”  
  
“I don’t know about that. Christine’s looking for you. She said you were to find her ‘immediately.’” Albus put up his hands like claws to quote the order. He was greatly surprised when Scorpius laughed and batted them away.  
  
“Leave worrying about Christine to me. It’s my job.”  
  
“Yeah, like anyone else would want it.”  
  
“Christine is a very pretty girl, you know. I know plenty of boys who’d be interested, if I happened to break up with her.”  
  
“Where, in the frontal lobotomy ward?” retorted Albus. He let Scorpius’ scowl pass as he contemplated his words. “Or ... are you trying to justify treating her badly? That’s a joke if I ever heard one.”  
  
“What are you yowling about? You treat her badly all the time.”  
  
“ _I_ don’t like her. _She’s_ your girlfriend. Grasp the difference, there?” Albus sniffed. “Besides, I don’t treat her badly – just think and talk about her behind her back badly.”  
  
“She’s in Ravenclaw.” Scorpius sounded amused. “She knows that already.”  
  
“Good for her.”  
  
“Hey! Pax.” Scorpius held up his hands. “Don’t look at me all fierce like that.”  
  
“Then talk about something else,” said Albus. He started towards the Great Hall. Savoury smells tantalised his nostrils, but for some reason he didn’t feel hungry. He had to eat, of course, or his glucose levels would go out of whack and trigger off one of the chain reactions of which they were so fond. He sighed and fingered the pill-box in his pocket.  
  
“I got you something.” Scorpius bounced to Albus’ side. There was definitely something wrong with him. Scorpius never bounced.  
  
“Is it lube?” Albus eyed the small tube askance. Scorpius’ fifteenth birthday present to him had been a packet of items so unspeakable he couldn’t show his mother. In revenge, he’d bought Scorpius a potted plant.  
  
“No. Take it and see.”  
  
Albus gingerly took the tube between two fingers and read the label. His eyes scanned the words slowly, it seemed, in comparison to the build-up of his rage, which was instantaneous.   
  
“‘Mrs Skower’s Blemish Away! Skin Formula,’” he read aloud. Scorpius was smiling happily. “What the flaming hell is _this_?”  
  
“Hey!”  
  
Albus’ hand was shaking. “Are you ashamed of me too, is that it? Is that why you gave me this – this _snake-oil_?”  
  
“Ashamed? I would never – I was only trying to help!”  
  
“Then you’re an idiot as well as a bastard,” snarled Albus. “Don’t you think I haven’t tried   
this? Don’t you think I haven’t tried _everything_? I use a prescribed potion so strong I have to measure it out in millilitres so it doesn’t abrade the skin off my face. I don’t have these bloody spots because I eat too much chocolate or need to change cleansers. _God_. How could you be so blind?”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Scorpius’ voice was subdued, a world away from the carefree nonchalance of earlier. “I didn’t realise.”  
  
“You don’t realise a lot lately,” said Albus. For an instant, he hated his best friend.   
  
“Are you coming inside? You need to eat,” said Scorpius. That, at least, he hadn’t forgotten,   
Albus thought bitterly. Or had experience rather than friendship been the teacher there?  
  
“No,” said Albus. “I’m not hungry.”   
  
He turned on his heel and stalked towards the Hufflepuff common room. Screw hypoglycaemia; he was going to bed. He didn’t expect Scorpius to follow him. Nothing about his behaviour lately made sense.  
  
Albus still felt absurdly hurt when he didn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

_Life is a long discovery, isn't it?  
You only get your wisdom bit by bit.  
If you have luck you find in early youth  
How dangerous it is to tell the Truth;  
You find that middle life goes racing past.  
You find despair: and, at the very last,  
You find as you are giving up the ghost  
That those who loved you best despised you most._  
(Hilaire Belloc)  
  
Albus was roused from a groggy sleep by the polite yet insistent prodding of a finger into the small of his back. He groaned and rolled over. The house-elf jumped away in the nick of time.  
  
"I have a delivery here for you, Master," it squeaked. "Mr Malfoy was most insistent that you be woken up to receive it, otherwise I would never have presumed to intrude on your slumber."  
  
Albus knuckled his eyes, trying to figure out why Scorpius' father would send him anything. Mr Malfoy was unfailingly polite to Albus, but there was always a guardedness in his manner when they spoke - which was far from often. There was nothing in his recent behaviour that suggested he'd warmed to Albus enough to mail him a surprise present.  
  
The elf was arranging a tray on Albus' trunk. On closer observation, Albus saw that plates of sandwiches and cake were nestled next to a pitcher of juice. The elf propped up an envelope against the crystal goblet and turned frightened eyes on Albus.  
  
"Will you be requiring anything else, sir?" he asked.  
  
"No, thank you," said Albus. The elf bowed and disappeared.   
  
Albus picked up a sandwich and peeled back the bread. There was no butter or mayonnaise on it, no relish or mustard; just two plain slices of ham on a background of wholemeal bread. Albus pressed an experimental finger into the bread. It hardly made a dent. _Organic three-seed_ wholemeal bread, then. And if he wasn't mistaken, the two slices of cake were carrot. Carrot cake was Albus' favourite, if only because he disliked most of what passed for 'dessert' in his diet.  
  
His stomach gave an ominous rumble, so he shoved half a sandwich into his mouth and flipped open the envelope. Inside there was a batch of cards held together with a silver ring. The cards were white with a velvety finish, and sumptously decorated with inked vines. The first read: 'I'm sorry.' The second read: 'I should have realised." The third read: 'Don't worry about your skin.' The fourth read: 'It's hardly noticeable.' The fifth read: 'Please forgive me.' The sixth read: 'PS, you sulk like a girl.'  
  
Albus smiled ruefully. One thing his spots were not was unnoticable. But he appreciated the gesture - all the more in light of Scorpius' recent abstraction.   
  
Still chewing, Albus fished a black lacquer box - another present from Scorpius - out of his trunk and tucked the cards inside. He made sure to spell the box closed. Eoghan had an unfortunate habit of poking his pointy nose in places it wasn't welcome, and by now Albus had given up hope of him ever growing out of it.  
  
He played with the silver ring while he finished his supper. The pitcher magically refilled itself four times before he was done, as 'healthy, non-antigen-laden food' was a synonym for 'dry as the mouth of Hell.' The clasp of the ring opened easily, and the metal was smooth under his fingers. On a whim, he fit it around his wrist. It was just the right size, sitting across his wrist bones below the by-now bedraggled friendship bracelet Scorpius had made for him in first year. Albus rather thought that had been the intention behind it.  
  
He felt far more mellow as he changed for bed. The well of homesickness was no longer overflowing, just simmering away in the background of his mind. In a few days the busyness of another school year would drain it entirely.   
  
By the time the thunder of feet sounded on the stairs outside, Albus was snuggled down under his duvet with _The Lair of the Beast_ , the latest title in VD Wallflower's Berto Blastnoggin series. Albus had read it already over the summer, but it was good enough to stand up to a second run-through. However, he put the volume aside and sat up in readiness to greet Rambo and Conan. Eoghan, he supposed, would also have to be included in the greeting, although not precisely by design.  
  
As luck would have it, Eoghan was the first through the dormitory door. Albus sank back a little into his pillows.  
  
"There you are," said Eoghan. "Taken sick again, have you?"  
  
"No." Albus was curt. "I was just tired."  
  
"Better safe than sorry, eh?" Eoghan winked. Albus scowled. That catchphrase was made up of the four words Albus hated most in the English language, especially taken in conjuction.  
  
"Where's Rambo?" he asked. It was rather rude, but Eoghan didn't seem to register the slight.  
  
"Having sevenths, where else? That Slytherin bit of fluff was with him - the two of them giggling like idiots. Going out, are they?"  
  
"No." Albus picked up his book.   
  
"Never mind, anyway." Eoghan propped his hip comfortably against Albus' bedpost. Albus stared, trying to communicate through facial expression the distaste he was too polite to voice. "I have got the news of the century. Just wait till you hear - you won't believe it."  
  
"No," said Albus for the third time, "probably not."  
  
"Well, come here until I tell you -" Eoghan broke off as the door opened. Conan stepped through, carrying an armload of books and a sheaf of parchment bearing minutes from the Prefects' meeting. He looked wan, dark thumbprints pressed under his eyes, but a smile lit up his face on seeing Albus.  
  
"Hi, Albus," he said. "Good to see you. I looked for you at the Feast - did you skip it?"  
  
"Yeah," said Albus. "I felt a bit tired."  
  
"Better safe than sorry, I told him," said Eoghan.   
  
"Have you eaten?" Conan ignored Eoghan's input. "I've got some snacks in my trunk."  
  
"It's all right, the elves brought me supper," said Albus. "Thanks anyway."  
  
"No problem." Conan yawned. "God, I'm exhausted, and that meeting went on for _ever_. Minuette Nestor doesn't half love to talk. And of course Scorpius decided to be late, so James held up the meeting until he arrived -"  
  
"Scorpius was late?" repeated Albus. "Did he go to the Feast?"  
  
Conan shrugged. "I didn't see him, but I wasn't looking for him either. I was fit to swing for him after that little stunt, mind. Maybe Eoghan saw him?" He turned to his friend with a questioning look.   
  
Eoghan made an unpleasant snuffling sound through his nose.  
  
"I don't regard it as my job to keep tabs on the movements of Slytherins," he said. Albus compared this to Eoghan's comment about Norma eating with Rambo, and felt very tired.  
  
"I'm going to turn in," said Conan. "We can swap summer stories in the morning, all right?"  
  
"I bet that will be a laugh," said Eoghan, an unwholesome twinkle in his eye. Conan just made a face at him and disappeared into the bathroom.  
  
Eoghan flounced off to his bed and pulled the curtains. A few seconds later, thumps and bangs indicated that he was undergoing the arduous task of unpacking his trunk. It was clear he was in for the long haul, with absolutely no intention of taking anyone else's desire for sleep into consideration.   
  
Albus sighed. One couldn't enchant beds that were not one's own - the rule had its origins in a more vicious time in Hogwarts' history, when assassinations were often carried out through such methods - or Albus would have thrown a Silencing Charm at Eoghan's. He was tempted to try it all the same, or get Rambo to use his power to overcome the safeguards. Where _was_ Rambo?  
  
The floor was cold against Albus' feet as he hopped out of bed and padded to the door. The stairwell was empty, but not silent: the echoes of a dozen conversations filtered through the walls. But no Rambo.   
  
Puzzled, Albus crawled back into bed. Even that short jaunt, combined with his erratic eating times, was enough to make him sincerely regret his earlier temper tantrum. He could taste metal on his tongue, and nails of nausea were raking down his insides.  
  
There was a good chance Rambo was still at dinner. He'd proved many times before that the magical tables would keep serving as long as there were people eating. Or perhaps he'd gone to the Clubhouse. Conan wasn't about to report him for being out of bed after curfew, and neither was Norma. Albus could usually talk Scorpius out of giving his friends detention - something he was disconcertingly prepared to do - if given enough notice.   
  
No, Albus wasn't worried. Selfish, maybe, in wondering why Rambo wasn't more concerned about Albus' no-show at dinner, when all meals were vital to his health. But not worried.  
  
It was an hour filled with tossing and turning - plus a sound like elephants being slaughtered from Eoghan's bed - before Albus got to sleep. Rambo never returned.  
  
+++  
  
"Oy! Hurry up, you plonker!"  
  
"Steady on, I've only been in here five minutes!" Albus yelled.  
  
"More like ten. Come _on_."  
  
Albus grimaced at his reflection. The light in the bathroom was unflattering to say the least. Albus had grown used to seeing his face lit up in various shades of lemon and puce over the last few years. What he hadn't anticipated was how grotesque this made his face look when rampant spots were added to the mix.  
  
With more faith than hope, he finished massaging Healer Bilharzia's special cream into his chin. Samire had referred him to Bilharzia as soon as she decided the spots were becoming a problem, approximately six months after Hugo had run through every unkind nickname in the bullies' handbook and made up half as many on his own (he was a 'gifted child,' as Aunt Hermione constantly averred).   
  
Bilharzia didn't advertise her wares well, for she had a nose like a middle-aged alcoholic and such rough cheeks that Dad had at first mistaken her for a man. Still, she was enthusiastic, and also completely certain that her treatments were efficacious. After being poked and prodded and hummed at by all the English dermato-Healers in St Mungo's, such conviction was a balm to Albus' soul.  
  
What his parents and Healer Bilharzia didn't realise, however, was that Albus knew more about the reasons for his spots than they'd wanted him to know. At first Mum and Dad had passed them off as a normal teenage 'thing' - despite the fact that James' normal teenage 'thing' consisted of a few blackheads after shaving, and despite Uncle George's frowns, and despite the pictures of generations of Weasleys with ruddy clear skin. Hugo was quick to point out that the bad genes might have come from Dad's side of the family, but Rambo's spots weren't anything like out of control. Plus, the press clippings of Dad's school days could have filled an encyclopaedia; and, although they were bursting with frowns and expressions suggesting Dad was _this_ close to hexing the photographers into oblivion, he'd had nary a spot in sight.  
  
Years of hospital visits had taught Albus the benefit of assumed disinterest. It was easy to look lethargic when all your muscles were ganging up on you, but there was nothing so boring as an isolation ward. Usually Albus wasn't even allowed books or letters in case they carried dust-mites, which might aggravate his delicate condition. During these stays his eyes picked up the tiniest movement, his ears the tiniest sound - like that of people huddled together, whispering behind an unlatched door.   
  
Extendable Ears were classic best-sellers for a reason.  
  
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, _will_ you get a move on?"  
  
Albus yanked open the door and nearly trod on Eoghan's foot. "Where's the fire? It's a whole hour till class starts."  
  
"I have to eat breakfast too," said Eoghan, sounding both aggrieved and as if breaking his fast was a monumental task that could only be achieved with a significant run-up. He darted through the bathroom door and hustled Albus through so he could close it.  
  
"Mental," muttered Albus - to himself. The room was deserted.   
  
Conan's bed was neatly made, suggesting that the house elves had already been. Conan's interminable Prefect duties often encroached on his mornings - yet another reason why Albus was glad the dubious honour had not been bestowed upon him. Less logical were Rambo's hospital corners. Rambo wrestled nightly with his bedsheets, and was even less fond of early rising than Albus. Either he'd undergone a radical personality change, or he hadn't slept in his bed all night.  
  
Albus rumpled his hair, unwittingly undoing all the good a five-second comb-through had wrought. Genuine concern for his friend put a spring in Albus' step as he shucked off his pyjamas and changed for school. Wand in hand to Summon the necessary articles, he buttoned buttons and tied shoelaces to the accompaniment of Eoghan's tuneless rendition of Hexed's 'Midnight in the Muggle Graveyard.'  
  
"... _the knife, the shining knife_ ," he roared, almost drowning out the shower. Albus shivered. He was a huge fan of Hexed - owned every album, poster, t-shirt and toothpaste endorsement they'd ever made - but for some reason, that song always gave him the creeps.  
  
Fortunately, the hot water ran out before Eoghan got to the spine-chilling chorus. Albus frantically scrabbled though his trunk for his NEWT Potions textbook. The last thing he wanted was to be present for Eoghan's infamous 'bastards who use up all the hot water' tirade.   
  
"Bloody hell, I'm freezing!"   
  
Albus froze, elbow deep in the detritus lining the bottom of his trunk. He really should have listened when Mum told him to clean it out - 'properly, Albus, don't just skim off the top layer.' Eoghan marched past him, flinging a spray of icy droplets with every arm-swinging stomp.   
  
"You lads have no consideration for others," announced Eoghan. Albus rolled his eyes, keeping them firmly hidden in the crook of his arm. There was something hypnotising about Eoghan on a rant, and Albus didn't want to add fuel to his ire. "Is it too much to ask that everyone has a five-minute hot shower, as opposed to three fifteen-minute warm showers and one bollock-rotting one?"  
  
"Mmm," said Albus, declining to mention that on Saturdays, when everyone slept late, Eoghan hijacked the bathroom for hours on end.   
  
Eoghan continued in this vein for some minutes, finishing off with an impressively inarticulate gargle of rage. Albus was about to take the opportunity to flee when Eoghan said, "Oh, I never told you the sca, did I? It's about you-know-who."  
  
"Voldemort?" said Albus in confusion.  
  
"No, _Conan_ ," said Eoghan, as if this should have been blindly obvious. He jerked his thumb towards Conan's pristine four-poster. "Turns out ol' Conan is a regular pillow-biter. Now!"  
  
Eoghan sat back, replete with satisfaction. Albus stared at Eoghan, whose plump chin quivered above wrongly buttoned robes.   
  
"He bites pillows? What's so scandalous about that? I sometimes do it too, when I lie on them funny -"  
  
"No, no." Eoghan waved a hand. "He's a shirt-lifter. A fudge-packer. A flaming poof."  
  
Albus was beginning to get an inkling of what Eoghan was driving at. It looked like a big thick wall. "Do you mean he's _gay_?"  
  
"Yeah - a fecking queerbo." Eoghan shuddered. "Right here in our dorm. Just imagine what he must think about us!"  
  
"That we're his friends?" suggested Albus. He felt a trickle of - not quite anger; more horrified amazement. "Who cares if he's gay?"  
  
" _I_ care," said Eoghan. "He's a dirty little homo. He probably takes it up the arse. He probably thinks about _us_ , naked!"  
  
"I shouldn't worry," said Albus. "No one in their right mind would think about _you_ naked."  
  
Eoghan narrowed his eyes; a barb that thick penetrated even his fortified defences. Before he could form a reply, however, another voice spoke.  
  
"Thank you, Albus." Conan's voice was shaky, but his jaw was lifted as he stared down his friend. "And in case you need further proof - if there were any man in the world who could turn me straight, it would be a sneaky little toad like you."  
  
"Huh," said Eoghan. He turned to Albus, a vile expression crinkling his face. "I thought better of _you_. Have fun with your new _boyfriend_."  
  
"We'll have loads," said Albus, "not thinking about you naked."  
  
Eoghan turned a spluttering shade of magenta. He struggled, he fought, but for once in his life he had no words. Instead he slammed the door with rattling force.   
  
"Did you see? He had shaving foam all under his ear - hey!"   
  
Conan had sunk to the floor, white and shaking. Albus crouched down and put one hand on Conan's shoulder.   
  
"Are you all right? Do you want some of my vinegar salts?"  
  
"No, no," said Conan, in between gulping breaths. "I just feel a bit - oh, God." He buried his face in his hands. His muscles shuddered under Albus' hand.  
  
"Please don't cry," said Albus, torn between sympathy and embarrassment. He knew all the gay stereotypes courtesy of Hugo, who mocked Uncle Charlie as much as he mocked everybody in the world bar Rose. Conan was perpetuating the over-emotionality to a T. If he started dropping his wrists and speaking with a lisp, Albus felt it might be his duty to smack him. "I don't know what to do when people cry. Also, I have no tissues."  
  
"I'm not crying." Conan's thick voice gave him away but, to his credit, he raised his head a few seconds later. Albus politely ignored his raw eyes.   
  
"Don't get too upset about Eoghan," said Albus. "He's a tosser, sadly, but he's also your friend. He probably got a bit of a shock."  
  
"Not as much as I did," said Conan. "He sort of ... walked in on us. Me and my boyfriend," he clarified, at Albus' inadvertently raised eyebrows. "Well, ex-boyfriend. Niall didn't take kindly to all the name-calling."  
  
"But that wasn't your fault!"  
  
"Depends which way you look at it." Conan shrugged. "Eoghan is - _was_ \- my friend, and he started yelling that Niall had infected me, turned me into a degenerate monster, all this crap. And, I mean - I didn't _mean_ to be gay. I even had a girlfriend."  
  
Albus remembered Roberta Dunway. He supposed she was, in every technical sense, a girl. She also had muscles bigger than James'. In retrospect, that made a lot of sense.  
  
"Niall was getting sick of my ... uncertainty, or whatever. Eoghan was just the icing on the cake. He's been funny with me ever since, and now I know why." Conan's smile was watery as he raised his fists in a mock-cheer. "Yay?"  
  
"I still don't understand," said Albus. "Eoghan is deeply deeply bothered by your sexual preference. Not, say, your terrible body odour or your horrible personality or your rampant stupidity, which would actually be reasonable if you did have them. I'm sorry, _what_?"  
  
"It's like he said: he's afraid I think about him naked."  
  
"You don't, do you?" Albus eyed him askance. Conan laughed.   
  
"No. You were right. I don't think anyone's thought about Eoghan naked outside of a nightmare, God love him. Even so, he's clearly afraid I'll impugne his manly virtue."  
  
"That's just silly," said Albus. "Eoghan isn't gay. You want someone else gay, right?"  
  
"Pretty much," said Conan. "But he's right about one thing: I do fantasise about some boys who definitely aren't gay."  
  
"And I fantasise about Charlotte Redding, but it doesn't mean I think she's going to fly down from Holyhead to jump my bones."  
  
"You never know," said Conan. "I heard she has a thing for younger men."  
  
"Still." Albus sat back on his creaking heels. "Fantasy is fantasy, reality is reality. They are two very different things."  
  
"So you wouldn't be bothered if I said ... for example ... that I think James is very hot, even though I'd never ever want to sleep with him?"  
  
"Oh geez, not you too. His head is fat enough as it is."  
  
"You really don't mind, do you?" Conan marvelled.  
  
"Any admiration is flattering, surely?" said Albus. "Of course, I speak as one who never gets any. But provided you don't go around stalking people, I don't see anything wrong with it."  
  
"I think I just fell a little bit in love with you," said Conan.  
  
"You're wasting your time," said Albus. "I'm saving myself for Charlotte Redding. Besides, you don't want to have naked fantasies about someone with spots all down their back."  
  
"They're not as bad as you think," said Conan. "No, seriously, don't make that face. They're _bad_ , but they're not important, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Not a clue," said Albus. "I can't take philosophy on an empty stomach. You coming to breakfast?"  
  
Conan shook his head. "I already ate." He paused. "How long will it take Eoghan to spread this around the whole school, do you suppose?"  
  
"Five and a half minutes," said Albus. "Maybe six."  
  
"That's what I thought."  
  
"Cheer up." Albus clapped Conan on the shoulder. "Not everyone can be as dim as Eoghan. It's a statistical impossibility. Besides - there might be some boy out there who's thinking naked thoughts about _you_."  
  
"Hopefully James," said Conan.  
  
"You've got to remember, I used to share a bath with him," said Albus. "You're setting yourself up for a huge disappointment. _Huge._ "  
  
Conan smiled. He looked a lot less likely to keel over in a faint, for which Albus was grateful. It would be aggravating to let a twerp like Eoghan win even that little victory.   
  
"I have to go, or my stomach will literally start devouring itself," said Albus. "You didn't happen to see Rambo anywhere, did you?"  
  
"Yeah - he was at breakfast, eating all round him."  
  
"Oh." Albus' earlier concern was replaced with confusion. "That's ... good." He tucked his Potions book tighter under his arm. "See you in class."  
  
"Yeah, see you. Oh, and Albus?"  
  
Albus paused, his hand on the doorknob.   
  
"Thank you," said Conan. "Just ... thanks."  
  
"You don't have to thank me," said Albus. "I'm your friend, remember?" And he slipped out before Conan could say anything more.  
  
+++  
  
Thanks to Eoghan's little revelation and the subsequent tete-a-tete, Albus was running direly late. He managed to scarf down two slices of toast and a glass of grapefruit juice before the clock struck nine. Madam MacDougal would always vouch for his need to put regular meals before punctuality, but Albus preferred to maintain the fiction that he was normal.  
  
He slid into class with half a minute to spare. It was in the usual uproar that dominated prior to the arrival of a professor. Scorpius was saving Albus a seat at the back of the class. Rambo, as usual, was dead front and centre - beside Norma, Albus noted with a little surprise. He'd thought Norma had decided to drop NEWT Potions.  
  
He hurried to the back of the room. Scorpius acknowledged him with a slight nod. He was enmeshed in a low-voiced conversation with Barrett Hughes from Ravenclaw, who was sitting with his friend Roe Negworthy. Scorpius' hair was clustered in wet curls, soggy gold shavings clinging to the back of his neck. It wasn't slicked back as if from a shower, and the shoulders of his robes were sprinkled with damp as well. Another nagging little mystery.  
  
Albus settled his books and looked around. The class was small, but diverse enough that Albus could only just match names to faces. Predictably, the class was dominated by Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Roe Negworthy was the only Gryffindor, and even at that he was often labelled a 'Gryffinclaw' for his un-Gryffindor-like fondness for book-learning and grasp of basic caution. There were no Hufflepuffs in the class bar Rambo and Albus.  
  
After a few minutes Scorpius deigned to turn his attention to Albus, who was duly grateful.  
  
"Thanks for dinner last night," he said. Scorpius waved it off.  
  
"I didn't want you getting sick on me," he said. Albus thought that was an odd way of putting it, but he didn't say so. "Are you feeling all right today?"  
  
"Fine, fine," said Albus. In fact he'd felt a little light-headed on the headlong rush to the dungeons, but he wasn't about to divulge that particular gem. "Where did you get to this morning? Was it raining?"  
  
"Why do you ask?"  
  
"Your hair's all wet."  
  
"Oh." Scorpius patted his fringe; he was paranoid about his hair. He pulled out his wand and started shooting Drying Charms at his head. "Yeah, there was a bit of drizzle outside. I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep, so I decided to go for a walk."  
  
"Did you see Rambo?" asked Albus. "I don't think he actually went to bed last night."  
  
"He was having breakfast with Norma when I got there," replied Scorpius. "He didn't say anything about sneaking out. He probably just got up early too, before you did. You know how much you like lie-ins."  
  
"Me and ninety-nine percent of sane people. It isn't normal to _like_ getting up early."  
  
"I don't know," said Scorpius. "You get to see things everyone else misses. Speaking of which, have you got class after this? I want to show you something."  
  
Albus consulted his timetable, which was already much-decorated with marmalade. "I have a half-hour study period. Don't we have to sign in with Madam Pince for those, though?"  
  
"We'll be back in time to sign. Scout's honour."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Scorpius shook his head. "Not telling. _Showing_."  
  
"Fine." Albus couldn't repress a sigh. Ten to one whatever mysterious thing Scorpius wanted to show him would have looked just as well ten hours later when class was over, and Albus would get a detention out of it.  
  
He was about to ask if Scorpius had been to the Clubhouse yet when Scorpius darted his eyes around furtively and leaned in close to Albus' ear. The sharp spicy smell of the aftershave Scorpius wore nowadays tickled Albus' nose, making him want to sneeze.  
  
"Did you hear about Conan - you know, that boy in your dorm?" he whispered.  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"Before you came in, Barrett said Roe told him that Conan _came out_. Roe had it off that berk Eoghan. Is it true?"  
  
"Yeah," said Albus, after checking with his internal slang-bank to make sure 'coming out' meant what he thought it meant.   
  
Scorpius' eyes boggled. "Seriously? I thought they were just making it up."  
  
"Why would Eoghan make up something like that? More to the point, how could he? He hasn't got the imagination."  
  
"I'm so sorry. Still, at least you've got the Clubhouse."  
  
"Yeah ... I do." Albus was confused as to what that had to do with anything.   
  
Scorpius didn't heed him. He was splaying out his hands as he talked off into the distance, not seeing Albus at all. "It's all very well, to be accepting and everything, but there's such a thing as being _too_ accepting. I mean, when you get right down to it, it isn't _natural_. Sex and relationships are about ensuring the survival of the species. Two men having sex ... God. It's just wrong, isn't it?"  
  
Albus stared at Scorpius as if he'd never seen him before. " _No_."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said no. It's not wrong. It's not right. It just _is_. Wrong is casting an Unforgiveable or selling faulty cauldrons that explode and burn down houses with the families inside. What people do with their sex lives is entirely their business."  
  
"Like you'd know," snorted Scorpius.  
  
"I clearly know more than you," said Albus heatedly. "No one goes prodding into what you get up to with Christine. No one cares. Why is this any different?"  
  
"Because," said Scorpius, slowly, as if Albus was an idiot, "Christine is a girl and I am a boy. Girl plus boy is right. Boy plus boy is wrong."  
  
"By that standard, I'm wrong too. Healthy person plus peanut equals yummy snack. Unhealthy person plus peanut equals death. You're right, I'm wrong."  
  
"That's not the same at all. You're twisting my words."  
  
"It's exactly the same. Next you'll be saying people with red hair are wrong and people with brown hair are right. Being gay is not something you make a choice about, it's something you are."  
  
"No, it's _not_ ," snapped Scorpius. "People - Conan doesn't have to be a deviant if he doesn't want to be."  
  
"Deviant?" Albus nearly choked on the word. "Deviant? Is that really what you think? He's a deviant?"  
  
"Of course," said Scorpius. "I can't believe you don't realise that."  
  
"I can't believe I'm having this conversation," returned Albus. "What's the matter with you lately? You're always moody - I mean, more moody than usual. You're never around, you hardly talk, and when you do you come out with trash like this!"  
  
"I'm entitled to my opinion," said Scorpius frostily.  
  
"Fine. So am I. In my opinion, you're a bigot."  
  
Two pink flares lit up Scorpius' cheeks. "You don't get to call me that, just because I'm not all liberal and tree-huggy like you. There are such things as standards and decency, and it's people like you and Conan who erode wizarding society!"  
  
"Pureblood inbreeding and evil dictatorship mania would have nothing to do with said erosion, I suppose?"  
  
"I am not inbred!"  
  
"I didn't say you were. I just think there's bigger threats to your precious 'society' than boys who like other boys."  
  
"Oh Jesus." Scorpius' face twisted. "Don't tell me you're one."  
  
"One what?"  
  
"A faggot."  
  
"Bloody hell, that is _it_ ," said Albus loudly, and got out his wand and cursed Scorpius' hair into tentacles just as the new Professor opened the door.   
  
+++  
  
Albus lay on a cot with bile-green sheets, holding a cold compress to his stinging eye. Madam MacDougal could have healed the bruise in a trice, but she didn't condone physical violence and believed that those who indulged should reap what they sowed. Albus was currently doing a lot of reaping, in between winces.  
  
The curtains were abruptly ripped back and Scorpius stood there in a shaft of sunlight. The glare lit up his blonde highlights, making his de-cursed hair glow. They stared at each other for a long, long moment.  
  
"I cannot believe it," said Albus, dazed.  
  
"Charlotte Redding," sighed Scorpius, in the same trance-like voice. " _Our_ new Potions professor."  
  
"Do I sleep? Do I dream?" asked Albus. "Seriously, pinch me."  
  
"I think you've got enough bruises to be getting on with, don't you?" Scorpius sat down gingerly. Albus shifted to make room for him on the bed. "I'm really sorry I hit you."  
  
"Fair's fair. I did cover your head in worms."  
  
"I was going to hex your nose blue," admitted Scorpius, "but I was afraid you'd get an attack or something. You're not allergic to punches, as far as I know."  
  
"What you said before -"  
  
"Look," Scorpius cut in, "I'm just not very comfortable with ... those sort of people, all right?"  
  
"That's fair enough, but you can't go around prating that it's _wrong_. I'm not over the moon about the thought of Christine getting within ten yards of reproducing, but I don't go lecturing people about it."  
  
"You've really got a bee in your bonnet about her."  
  
"Don't change the subject." Albus adjusted his compress and rested back on the pillow. A stone would have been marginally more comfortable. After a minute, Scorpius swung his legs on to the bed and settled in beside him.  
  
Scorpius didn't speak for ages: long enough for the pain in Albus' eye to go down, and for him to get a cramp in his leg. It was as he was shaking it out that Scorpius said, "I suppose ... I suppose you're right."  
  
"I was born right."  
  
"Shuddup." Scorpius elbowed him in the side. Albus retaliated with a sharp pinch. "Ow!"  
  
"I hope you boys aren't fighting again," said a stern voice from behind the curtain.  
  
"No, Madam MacDougal," they chorused. Scorpius even put on his angelic choir-boy face, wasted as he was hidden from view. It made Albus dissolve into giggles.  
  
"You laugh like my sister," Scorpius informed him.  
  
"Yeah? Well, _you_ hit like _my_ sister."  
  
"Considering your sister is Lily Potter, that's a compliment." Scorpius held up Albus' wrist. "You're still wearing that old thing?"  
  
Albus twisted his friendship bracelet, now faded to the colour of old blood. Their fingertips brushed. "Of course. Why wouldn't I?"  
  
Scorpius shrugged. "Thought you might have lost it by now. The others all have."  
  
"I wouldn't lose it," said Albus. The disbelieving look on Scorpius' face made him persist. "I _wouldn't_."  
  
"I think I'm going to break up with Christine," said Scorpius softly.   
  
His voice was so utterly woebegone, Albus couldn't find it in himself to be glad. Not now.  
  
He shuffled around until he could get an arm around Scorpius' shoulders. Scorpius lifted his head to let him, and when he laid it down again it was against Albus' shoulder.   
  
Ten minutes later, Madam MacDougal came in to give them a note excusing their absence. She found them still curled up like that, fast asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_Oh, for it would be a pity  
To o'erpraise her or to flout her:  
She was wild, and sweet, and witty -  
Let's not say dull things about her._  
(Victor Plarr)  
  
It was a dark and stormy night. Albus mummified himself in blankets and tried not to think about two things: the Potions essay that was due on the morrow, and just how cold his feet were.   
  
Of the two, the ice-block status of his extremities was the more pressing issue. This was probably because he didn't have his Potions essay in bed with him - but only because Rambo had come down to the common room at midnight and forcibly separated them.   
  
Even now – an hour later – Albus' mind was still revolving around the finer points of his assignment. He was already five inches over the required parchment length: a historical event in and of itself. He'd never before understood why Rambo and Scorpius felt such a rush of achievement when they overshot the mark. It always seemed like a monumental waste of effort, both on their part and that of the poor sods that had to correct it. Now, Albus knew better. Now, he understood completely.   
  
His conclusion was raggy. He ruminated on this as he pulled his legs to his chest and tried to rub the circulation back into his feet. He could have sharpened it up a bit – a _lot_ , if only Rambo hadn't dragged him away.   
  
The cold was creeping towards his knees now. Defeated, Albus scrabbled a hand outside the covers and through the curtains to retrieve his wand. In the old days he'd used to keep it in the traditional spot beneath his pillow. He'd rather lost his taste for that when Rambo charmed himself bald in his sleep, one night in fourth year.   
  
The Warming Charm coiled around him like an overheated snake. It was weaker than it could be, but Albus was tired. Not to mention that, between Scorpius and the demands of his now all-important Potions homework, he'd hardly had a moment to breathe all week.   
  
' _I've got something to show you_.' Albus shook his head. Danger always beckoned when Scorpius uttered those words. And Albus, like a fool, had never once failed to follow it.   
  
+++  
  
"Are you free now?"  
  
Albus looked up into Scorpius' amused face. Albus supposed he did make for a comical figure, with his face flushed from effort and a roaring fire, his tufty hair on end, and a couple of quills stuck behind one ear.   
  
"I'm free all the time," said Albus. "I think it's the law or something."  
  
"Funny." Scorpius leaned over his shoulder and ran a finger down Albus' parchment. "'The Use of Underwater Plants in Fertility Potions: a Case Study,'" he read. "Oh, our assignment? Interesting topic."   
  
"Hm." Albus squirmed. Scorpius would cheerfully castigate anyone's choice of essay subject, potion recipe or general appearance – anyone except Albus, whom he treated with fine kid gloves. The gloves did come off now and again, but Scorpius had been remarkably cheerful of late. His mood contrasted oddly with Christine's, whose stifling grief was that of one mourning a tragic and unexpected death.   
  
"Are you nearly finished it?" asked Scorpius.   
  
Of course he'd finished his. And it wouldn't be on an 'interesting topic,' which was the sort of phrase that people more polite than Scorpius used for hard-working students who'd never break the bell-curve. Obscure, rare, intriguing, ground-breaking, topical, controversial – these were the sort of comments garnered in the otherwise pristine margins of Scorpius' essays, along with 9/10 or 23/25.   
  
"I suppose so." Albus inspected his work doubtfully.   
  
In days past he would have responded with an emphatic 'yes,' and felt eternally grateful to Scorpius for handing him the key to his homework prison. For his other classes, that still held true. Potions was another story. Since the advent of Professor Redding (whom Albus still thought of as Chequer Charley) his enthusiasm for the subject had all but tripled.  
  
"Come on," wheedled Scorpius. "I still haven't shown you that _thing_ \- remember, from Monday?"  
  
"Like I could forget." Albus sheathed his quills with an inaudible sigh. "Will this take long?"   
  
"Why? Do you need more time to work on your Harpies scrapbook?"  
  
"No, that's already full," said Albus, trying to match Scorpius' light-hearted tone. He wondered how Scorpius knew about the scrapbook: he'd gone so far as to ward it from intruders to prevent Eoghan finding out about it, and that was nearly guaranteed to repel less nosy people. Perhaps Scorpius had just guessed.   
  
"I brought your cloak."   
  
Scorpius brought his hands from behind his back. True to his word, two folds of woollen cloth - one deep crimson, one green - lay over his arms. He swept the green cloak around Albus' shoulders and would have fastened it too if Albus hadn't batted his hands away.  
  
"I said I'll come and I'll come," he said. "No need to play house-elf."  
  
"Hurry then. And put your hood up. I don't want us to be seen."  
  
" _Please_ don't tell me this is in the Forest."  
  
Scorpius had already tugged his hood forward to hide the silvery gleam of his hair. He kept his dark blue eyes trained on the floor, but mirth tweaked the edges of his mouth.  
  
"It's in the Forest, isn't it," said Albus, resigned.  
  
"Prefect, remember?"  
  
"You going to put a unicorn on detention, are you?" Albus rolled his eyes, but his feet were following Scorpius out of the Clubhouse door and down the hall. The objections and the sarcasm were mere form, and they both knew it.   
  
There was no sound to drown the patter of their feet as they slipped through tapestries and behind statues, taking the long route to the Entrance Hall. Knots of students milled about; a particularly raucous game of Gobstones was on-going under the watchful eye of a suit of armour.   
  
The main doors - ten feet of gnarled and withered oak - were bolted shut, but the watchman's entrance stood slightly ajar. Albus kept watch, crossing his arms in a 'look-how-casual-I-am' gesture while Scorpius wriggled through. Albus took his time, leaning against the door as if by accident until it opened enough to allow his passage.  
  
A slight drizzle was falling outside, drops stinging Albus' nose. He was tempted to stop and fuss with his cloak fastenings, but Scorpius already had him by the hand and was drawing him round behind the greenhouses. It was a sorry reflection on their schooling careers that they both knew the best way to enter the Forbidden Forest unseen.   
  
The Whomping Willow rustled its branches threateningly as they passed, too far away to sustain any damage. Scorpius thumbed his nose at it.  
  
"It'll get you for that one day," Albus warned.  
  
"How? Will it grow legs and chase after me?"  
  
"Stranger things have happened."  
  
Scorpius snorted. "Not to trees."  
  
By the time they reached the outskirts of the Forest, Albus' robe hem was soaking and stained with churned-up mud. He made a mental note to fix that before they went back inside.  
  
"It's not far," Scorpius told him. "Plus, I made a path."   
  
He pointed at an alder that was growing a few yards into the main fringe. A tiny white pendant was spinning in the chill breeze, sending dappled light dancing across the leaves. It was mostly hidden by a cluster of foliage, so that the casual onlooker would probably miss it.   
  
Albus ventured closer to inspect the pendant. The fine silver wires that held it in place were twisted in a Celtic Knot pattern and the milky crystal was inscribed with runes. It looked like Scorpius' own work.  
  
"Good, aren't they?" Scorpius took Albus' hand and wrapped it around the crystal. Instantly, a whole line of white lights lit up, leading off into the trees in a winding trail.  
  
"Wow," breathed Albus.   
  
"And they stay lit until you touch the first one again," said Scorpius. "Nifty little spell, ain't it? It was one of the references in my Ancient Runes textbook. Never-Lost, I think it's called."  
  
"It must have taken you ages," said Albus.  
  
"A few months - I was only doing it to see if I could, at first."  
  
"So you didn't plan on taking multiple trips into strictly forbidden territories?"  
  
"Not as such, no."   
  
Scorpius pushed back his hood and Albus did the same. The thick canopy held off all but the most torrential rain.   
  
Instinctively, Albus reached for Scorpius' hand. Long experience of investigating dark and dangerous places - such as the gnome-infested warrens behind Grandma Weasley's, the magical caves around Godric's Hollow and any given room in Malfoy Manor - had taught them that getting separated was the worst fate that could befall the naive adventurer.   
  
Albus thought Scorpius' hand trembled a little in his, but it was probably the cold.  
  
They tramped through the mulch for fifteen minutes before Scorpius stopped Albus with a squeeze. "There," he whispered, pointing. "Look."  
  
Albus looked, and gasped. Somehow, some time, a great rubble of rocks and boulders had accumulated in the centre of a clearing. They formed a veritable cliff-face that stretched up beyond the tops of the trees. Magic or erosion had carved out a hollow in the centre, through which a waterfall fell endlessly into a dark pool.  
  
"What is it?" said Albus, in a hushed voice. There was an aura surrounding the place akin to the one in Godric's Chapel. Albus felt that talking normally would be disrespectful, although to what or to whom he was uncertain.  
  
"A Wishing Well," said Scorpius. He stepped down into the rocky basin bordered the pool. Albus did likewise and nearly fell - the slippery rock had no purchase. He clutched Scorpius' shoulder for support.  
  
"How did you find out about it?" he asked, once he'd caught his breath.  
  
"On an old map of the Forest," said Scorpius. "It was in the library at home."  
  
"It's beautiful."   
  
Now that Albus was closer, he could see the amazing detail. The inner side of the hollow was pale granite with pink marascite veins, as if someone had cut into stony flesh. The basin had a ledge running all the way around the pool, which was no longer as dark as Albus had first thought. It was all colours, like sunshine on oil.  
  
"Follow me."   
  
Scorpius, one hand on the rock surface, began to pick his way around the narrow ledge. The spray misted across his hair and shoulders, making Albus smile. So _that_ explained it.   
  
The path around was more difficult than it looked, being rough and narrow, but they were well rewarded for their efforts. A smooth hollow of the same creamy stone had been scooped out on the opposite side, easily accommodating two nearly-grown wizards.  
  
Scorpius picked up a handful of tiny pebbles. They rattled as he gathered them into his lap and chose three that were the most evenly-contoured.  
  
"These are for you," he said, cupping Albus' palm and pouring the pebbles into it. "Three wishes - no more, no less."  
  
"What about you?" Albus wanted to know.  
  
Scorpius smiled his secretive smile: the one that was two parts intriguing, one part damn irritating. "I already made my wishes."  
  
"Okay."   
  
Albus closed his eyes and licked his lips. What should he wish for? What, indeed?  
  
Good health and clear skin? But Albus knew a little about the properties of Wishing Wells. They were capricious at best. Those who wished too greedily were rewarded in kind. Besides, for all Albus knew, this Well had been abandoned for centuries. The magic might have faded with no one to maintain it. Best to keep his wishes small, then.  
  
Albus tossed one pebble into the pool. It vanished with a soft plop.  
  
"I wish that Professor Redding would notice me," he thought.  
  
The second pebble slid under with a sound like tearing silk.  
  
"I wish I might become a good Healer one day," he thought.  
  
The final pebble made a great splash that doused Albus' face in spray. He grinned like a child, because he had no wishes left to make.   
  
After a quick deliberation, he thought: "I wish Scorpius to be happy." There: those wishes couldn't be too hard to fulfil.  
  
"All done?" asked Scorpius softly.  
  
"Yeah, I think so," said Albus.  
  
But they stayed there a while longer, staring down at the petrol-spill surface of the pool. Just because.  
  
+++  
  
Dragging himself out of bed the next morning was torture. Albus had fully intended to rise with the sun, the better to make the necessary corrections to his Potions essay. But he'd found the battle against the warm lure of his bedclothes an impossible one to win.   
  
He summoned up a smile for the poster of Professor Redding that Eoghan had taped to the wall. It continually cycled an action sequence, with Professor Redding passing the Quaffle to her teammates in the legendary Chequer formation and scoring the definitive goal that clinched the 2008 World Cup. Her face flashed into focus - sweaty and beautiful - as the poster's caption lit up: _Chequer Charley Does It Again!_  
  
Rambo had thoughtfully scrambled together Albus' notes and placed them on his trunk. He'd woken unaccustomedly early, as he had every day since they returned to school, and thus saved Albus' essay from the denigration of those cavorting in the common room.   
  
Albus sleep-walked through a shower and dressing. It wasn't until he nearly walked into his sister at the entrance to the Great Hall that he remembered he'd been meaning to check up on her.  
  
"Lils, wait," he said, catching at her arm. Lily turned slowly, regarding him from under her woolly fringe.  
  
"You wanted something?"  
  
"Yeah - how are you getting on?"  
  
"With what?" Lily wasn't being purposely obtuse, Albus knew, although most people read it that way. Lily just liked to be _clear_.  
  
"Classes, your dorm-mates - life, in general."  
  
Lily pondered this for a while, shifting her anatomy book from hip to hip. Albus had yet to see her without it: she seemed to look on it as a talisman. Considering that it could have brained an elephant, he didn't blame her.  
  
"My classes are boring," Lily announced at last. "My dorm-mates are squealing imbeciles who all want in James' pants. I've tried to tell them how disappointing they'd find that, but of course they don't listen to me. Life is as disappointing as usual, in other words."  
  
"Are you still intending on..." Albus waved his hands, knowing he had to say it "... quitting, after your exams?"  
  
"Do you think Mum and Dad will let me?"  
  
"Absolutely not. But that wasn't the question I asked."  
  
"Yes, then." Lily swapped hips again. "I've already talked to Morse about it. He's willing to take me on as an apprentice."  
  
"Won't you need NEWTs for that?"  
  
"Taxidermy isn't exactly a Ministry job." Lily's voice was more gravelly than ever. "There are no regulations, just aptitude. Morse thinks I have it."  
  
Albus could attest to that. Mum and Dad kept Chicken, Lily's first taxidermy attempt on her pet raven, on the piano next to James' Quidditch trophies. It still gave Albus the willies, but at least it was big enough to hide his own lack of offerings to the family pride.  
  
"What about you, big bro?" asked Lily. "Any plans to follow in James' footsteps?"  
  
She sounded like Dad. Albus restrained himself from scowling - just. "I can barely fly in a straight line. The only Quidditch team that'd sign me would be blind circus performers."  
  
"Uncle Ron's delighted, I hear."  
  
"He would be - he owns shares in the Cannons, remember?"  
  
"Is it possible to forget?"  
  
Albus and Lily shared a smile. One entire room in the Granger-Weasley mansion was given over entirely to Cannon memorabilia. It was a truly hideous chamber - an epileptic's nightmare. All the gold in Gringotts couldn't teach Uncle Ron good taste.  
  
To be fair to his father, Albus' newly-minted interest in Quidditch was bound to be misleading. He still attended school matches on sufferance, and then only when Scorpius was playing (he was a good, although not especially gifted, Keeper). Albus declined the season tickets Uncle Ron regularly offered to Dad, pleading illness or vertigo. It was the only time he ever played the sick card.  
  
Albus couldn't exactly tell his father that his sole interest in the Holyhead Harpies revolved around their star Chaser.   
  
"Anyway." Albus cleared his throat awkwardly. "You can talk to me. And stuff."  
  
"I'm aware of that," said Lily. "My vocal cords are one hundred percent intact." She turned and walked to the Slytherin table. For Lily, that was practically affectionate.  
  
When Albus arrived at the Hufflepuff table, Norma was sitting beside Rambo, sharing a plate of rashers. Albus served himself some cornflakes, nodding hello to his friends.  
  
"How's Lily?" Norma asked.   
  
"She's Lily," said Albus, "but otherwise, fine. Why do you ask?"  
  
"No reason." Norma shook her head, as if to dislodge flies. "I've tried talking to her - telling her pranks - everything I can think of. She just doesn't want to settle in."  
  
"That's true," agreed Albus. "Don't lose sleep over it. She chooses to be like that."  
  
"I want to help her!" Norma pronged a piece of bacon so hard it bounced off the plate.  
  
"They won't rescind your Prefecture if every student in Slytherin isn't singing 'Oh Happy Day' every morning," Albus pointed out.   
  
"Slytherins, singing? Pah," said Norma. She chewed moodily on her rasher.  
  
Rambo looked up from his astronomy book, tuning into the conversation for the first time. "I used to be in a choir," he said.  
  
"Excellent," said Albus. "Norma's thinking of starting an inter-House singing competition, to bring all the loners back into the fold."  
  
"I should think you'd be more compassionate. She is your sister, after all."  
"Exactly," said Albus, in such a way that even the rhinoceros-skinned Norma knew the conversation was closed.  
  
"Are we still on for tonight?" Rambo asked Norma, who nodded vigorously, bits of chewed bacon spraying everywhere.   
  
Albus stared at them in dawning comprehension. Rambo - and Norma! Together at night ... doing God knows what. Albus didn't know whether to laugh or vomit. Titania's timely entrance forestalled the decision.  
  
"Kippers! Lovely!" she said, plopping herself down beside Albus. "Aren't you having anything?"  
  
"Yeah," said Albus. He crammed a slice of toast into his mouth, out of necessity more than hunger.   
  
He felt an urgent need to impart this slice of news to Scorpius, but he was nowhere to be seen.   
  
+++  
  
Albus trawled the corridors of the dungeons. He was far too early for class, but he was hoping to find Scorpius either coming or going. Predictably, there was no answer to his Port call.  
  
He rounded the corner that lead to the potions supply room. And there was Scorpius, slipping through the door and looking furtive. His hair was ruffled and his cheeks were pink.   
  
"What are you doing in there?" asked Albus, at which Scorpius gave a enormous start.  
  
"Oh! Er, nothing." Scorpius closed the door behind his back and leaned against it. "What are _you_ doing here?"  
  
"We have class." Albus gestured further down the hall to the Potions lab. Scorpius was looking bamboozled. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"  
  
"No! What?"  
  
"In the storeroom," said Albus, talking slowly. "Your head?"  
  
"I just had to get some supplies. You know, for things."  
  
Albus nodded, as if this were a reasonable explanation that made even a vague kind of sense. "Are you coming to class?"  
  
"Yes, in a minute. I just have to finish getting those ... things."  
  
"Right." Albus didn't move, expecting that Scorpius would run inside and hurry out to meet him. After a few seconds, however, it was clear that Scorpius was waiting for him to leave.  
  
"I'll meet you there, shall I?" asked Albus, wondering if this morning would get any more disturbing.  
  
Scorpius' face cleared. "Yes! Do that. I'll be in as soon as I, you know -"  
  
"Get your things?" Albus finished. "Right."  
  
Frowning, he made his way into the classroom. Professor Redding was seated at her desk. Unlike the rest of the teachers, who stuck to sedate robes with boring cuts, Redding was as flashy as a bird of paradise. Her cerise robes were slashed almost to her waist, and the flimsy scrap of material across her cleavage enhanced rather than covered what was beneath it. Her fingernails were painted to match, and she had jewelled combs in her hair. Albus felt as dazzled as if he'd looked directly into the sun.  
  
"Good morning," she said. "Algernon, wasn't it?"  
  
"Albus. Albus Severus Potter."  
  
"Oh yes, of course. My apologies, Albus. Have you finished your essay?"  
  
"I have." Albus fumbled in his satchel. He wished, suddenly, that he'd bound his essay in gold thread, used a better quill, anything that would make it more pleasing to Professor Redding. Alas, it was too late, too late.  
  
"Thank you, Alg - Albus." Professor Redding smiled at him, revealing her rather long but brilliantly white teeth. Albus felt his heart race. "You can take a seat now."  
  
Albus just stopped himself from thanking her. He stumbled a little as he walked to the back of the room and sat, face flaming.  
  
After all, Scorpius wasn't so long in following him. He'd smoothed down his hair, but the flush on his face and neck made him look like he'd just ran a marathon. He tossed his essay on Professor Redding's desk as he passed, hardly even looking at her.  
  
"Your robes are buttoned wrong," Albus told him. "Did you get dressed in the dark?" Was it his imagination, or did Scorpius blush deeper?   
  
"Something like that," he muttered, hands flying to his neck.  
  
"I have something to tell you." Albus leaned closer. "I think Norma and Rambo are ... _going out_."  
  
"Oh, really?" Scorpius didn't sound overly interested. He was staring cross-eyed at his collar. Making an impatient noise, Albus pulled his hands away and re-did the buttons for him.  
  
"Now, can you pay attention?"  
  
"To what?"  
  
"Norma and Rambo!"  
  
"So they finally got it together, did they?" Scorpius shrugged. "About time."  
"You knew about this?" Albus was aghast.  
  
"If you mean, did I know they are now an item, then no. If you mean, did I think it would happen sooner or later, then yes, of course. Didn't you?"  
  
"I never even thought about it," said Albus honestly.  
  
"Oh, come on. They're the only two people in the known universe who enjoy doing crossword puzzles. They _have_ to go out with each other. No one else will."  
  
"But aren't you ... worried? What if they break up? What happens to the rest of us?"  
  
"We'll survive."  
  
"How can you be so sure?"  
  
Scorpius rolled his shoulders irritably. "Because it's really nothing to do with us. Provided they don't go getting down and dirty in front of us, that is. If they're going out then they're going out. If they break up they break up. Did Christine damage _our_ friendship?"  
  
"No-o," said Albus. _Only because she's been such a constant fixture that she's formed part of the foundations_ , was what he didn't say. "But she wasn't _my_ friend."  
  
"And still isn't, I'd wager." Scorpius smiled, suddenly serene. "You're such a little worry-wart, you know that?"  
  
"Says the boy who has a nervous breakdown every time he gets an A," retorted Albus, without heat. After all, it had only happened twice in living memory.  
  
At that point, Professor Redding called for the class's attention, and Albus had none to spare for Scorpius, Norma and Rambo, or indeed anything else in the world.  
  
+++  
  
Five minutes before Potions ended, Albus started gathering up his notes and quills into a neat pile. His plan was to exit the class promptly, so that he would be one of the first to walk past Professor Redding's desk - maybe even in time to catch her gaze and mouth 'goodbye.'   
  
He was bitterly disappointed at the outcome of his scheming. Granted, he got to the front of the classroom in double-quick time - Scorpius was barely out of his seat - but at the last, last minute Roe upset his cauldron and Professor Redding rushed to his aid.  
  
The first blow was bad enough, but the second was nearly too much to bear. A front-row view of the Professor's cleavage! Albus only hoped Roe appreciated it.  
  
He dawdled down the corridor, lost in thought, and nearly walked straight into his brother.  
  
"James!"   
  
"That's my name, don't wear it out."  
  
Albus scowled. Although matters between them were held in an uneasy truce, Albus didn't go out of his way to seek out James. James, equally, kept to his own territory and didn't stray much beyond it. The dungeons - especially now that James had unilaterally denounced Potions and all that it stood for - were most certainly not his territory.  
  
"What are you doing here?" asked Albus.   
  
"I'm waiting for Marie-Jeanette," James replied easily. Albus had been expecting more a fight to gain the answer and, now that he had it, he didn't quite know what to do with it.  
  
"Marie-Jeanette isn't in my class," was the answer he settled on.  
  
"Yeah, but she said she'd meet me here." James blew his hair out of his eyes. "God knows why. Girls, eh?"  
  
"Right." Albus graced his brother with a narrow-eyed stare.   
  
There was little of Albus in his face, the pebbly layer of spots notwithstanding. His nose was larger and beakier than Albus', his cheeks thinner, his eyes deeper-set. He was a rainbow of browns: russet hair, blackberry eyes, nut-gold skin. Why Albus and Lily had to be so pale and weedy by comparison was a family mystery that bespoke no understanding.  
  
"If you happen to see her, do remind her I'm waiting," said James. "I'd _hate_ to be late for Transfigurations. I do love it so."  
  
Loved it enough to barely scrape a P in his OWLs, but that was beside the point. "Okay."  
  
"Aren't you going to pass on your best wishes to our charming cousins?" James bared his teeth.   
  
"Huh," muttered Albus. He walked away, James waving him off cheerfully.   
It was only as he was climbing the stairs to the Entrance Hall that an alarming thought occurred to Albus.  
  
James - smooth, dashing, handsome, swooned-over James - was inexplicably outside the Potions classroom. Professor Redding - beautiful, charming, famous, not very old Professor Redding - was _inside_ the Potions classroom. A coincidence?  
  
Albus was very much afraid that it wasn't.  
  
+++  
  
Albus sat over the edge of the bed, swinging his legs. A cold breeze was blowing through his paper gown, becoming intimately acquainted with his nether regions. Albus longed to grab his wand and incant an _Impervus_ , but he was very well aware that any magic casting would interfere with the readings.  
  
After Albus had endured five more minutes of buttock-clenching agony, Madam MacDougal at last consented to check up on him. She bustled through the curtains, seemingly inured to the sight of bare behinds. She removed her wand from Albus' ear and waved it around a few times.  
  
"This is looking good," she said, casting her eye over the shimmering pink data burst. "You've been sticking to your diet, I see."  
  
Albus nodded. There had been a significant Lapse last year, when Albus, fed up with the endless restrictions his illness imposed, had gorged himself silly at Scorpius' birthday party. He'd paid the price for it, coming closer to a fatal anaphylaxis than he had since first year. He'd been suitably cowed ever since, rejecting even the specialised chocolate his mother ordered in from Norway.  
  
Madam MacDougal opened an enormous ledger and began noting down results. The ledger was Albus' very own: it was approximately four inches thick. Weekly check-ups, monthly physicals, copies of his hospital reports from St Mungo's - they were all in there. Madam MacDougal took her custodianship of Albus' welfare _very_ seriously.  
  
"You're going to see Samire in a fortnight, yes?" Madam MacDougal ran her finger down the most recent entries.  
  
Albus shook his head. "No - Healer Bilharzia. They alternate now. I went to Samire the week before school started, so it's Bilhazia's turn."  
"How's that working out for you?"  
  
"Fine, I guess." Albus' hand went automatically to his face. It still felt rough as carpet. "There's no change that I can see, but she did tell me to give it six months."  
  
"You should be happy," Madam MacDougal chided him. "You're healthier than you've ever been. Everyone gets spots."  
  
"I know," sighed Albus. It was hard, though, to remember how much worse it could be, when images of James smiling cockily at Professor Redding persisted in tormenting him. He knew it was silly to be jealous of something that existed solely in his imagination – or so he hoped.   
  
And still, and still. James got every girl he wanted, and a dozen more besides. James had skin like a peach. Little wonder that Albus extrapolated that the two were irrevocably connected.  
  
"Is there anything else I need to know?" Madam MacDougal's Quick Quotes Quill was flying busily across the page. "Night-time emissions? Masturbation?"  
  
"No. Yes," replied Albus, feeling only a small thrill of embarrassment. Madam MacDougal had asked him these questions so many times he could answer them in his sleep.   
  
"More or less often than usual?"  
  
"Er ... more." Albus smiled sheepishly as Madam MacDougal raised her eyebrows.  
"Girlfriend?" she asked, a smile playing about her lips.  
  
"No," said Albus. "Not yet."  
  
"Ah," said Madam MacDougal. She slapped the Quick Quotes Quill. "Oy! That's enough out of you." She thumped the ledger closed. "I think that's everything. You can get dressed now. I'll see you in a week - and not before, do you understand?"  
  
"Yes." Albus rolled his eyes, but discreetly. Aside from his scheduled visits, he didn't attend the Infirmary _that_ frequently. Not as frequently as he could have, that was for sure.  
  
As he dressed he smoothed his hands over his stomach, contemplative. He thought about Professor Redding and her gloriously low-cut robes. He thought, too, about Scorpius' flushes and furtiveness. He'd clearly got a new bird on the go, and was either too ashamed or too nervous to tell Albus about her. Knowing Scorpius, it was unlikely to be the former. Then again, Minuette Nestor looked like something a griffin had stepped on, and she counted James as only one of a long list of conquests. If she had caught Scorpius in her net, he'd probably want to keep it to himself.  
  
Albus pulled on his robes with a sigh. There were many things that were confusing about the game of love, but one thing was crystal clear: the Infirmary was not the place to be thinking about them too deeply.  
  
+++  
  
On tiptoe, Albus _just_ curled his fingers around the edge of the ancient encyclopaedia. He rested a few seconds, stretched out along the bookshelves. Then he steeled himself for another attempt.   
  
After a few hefty tugs, the book came free. It teetered on the edge of the shelf, then toppled over - plunging straight at Albus' face. Fortunately, he had his wand at the ready. He Levitated the book in mid-air and brought it down with a gentle thud atop the pile he'd already accumulated.  
  
He dusted off his hands, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done. There were enough volumes here to reference a dozen Potions essays. Surely, they'd be sufficient to pad out a lone, yet brilliant one.  
  
He looked up at the sound of footsteps. The library was colossal and labyrinthine: Albus was certain he'd never seen these particular stacks before. Then again, he'd never traversed the shelves with such enthusiasm before. He was rather surprised that someone else would venture so far.  
  
The tapping sounds resolved into the distinct click of high-heels, and Marie-Jeanette rounded the corner. She was tailed by a retinue of books floating in mid-air. They paused when she paused, chittering as she tapped her quill against her teeth and inspected a long piece of parchment. Its rolls coiled around her feet.  
  
Typical Ravenclaw, thought Albus, but fondly. He'd never had much time for that fashion-plate Victoire, who treated his spots like a terminal diagnosis. Marie-Jeanette - and to a lesser extent her younger sister Therese - was another matter. Although just as beautiful as her older sister, Marie-Jeanette was charmingly unconcerned about her looks, preferring instead to follow in her Aunt Hermione's footsteps as a great scholar.   
  
Knowing Marie-Jeanette would never notice him if he didn't make his presence known, Albus stepped over to her and touched her shoulder. Marie-Jeanette started, as if he'd woken her from a deep sleep. Her face creased into a smile.  
  
"Albus! How are you, darling boy?" She kissed each of his spotty cheeks, making 'mwah' noises as she did so. Even her academic achievements could not entirely free her of her mother's influence.  
  
"Not bad," Albus acknowledged.  
  
"I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to talk to you before." Marie-Jeanette rolled her eyes expressively. "Work, work, work! As you know, I wish to apply for a job in the Department of Mysteries. Professor Bones thinks this means I want to be worked like a slave."  
  
"Is there much difference?" teased Albus. Marie-Jeanette had at him with her endless parchment.  
  
"But! I see you have joined the ranks," she said, her eyes lighting on Albus' miniature Leaning Tower of Pisa. "Might I ask to what this sudden endeavour pertains?"  
  
"I like Potions, that's all." Albus feigned indifference, but Marie-Jeanette was sharper than that. To fend off the interrogation, he asked quickly, "Did you ever catch up with James?"  
  
"James? No. Why would I see James?"  
  
"He said he was supposed to meet you ... oh, two days ago. Down in the dungeons."  
  
Marie-Jeanette shuddered. "I avoid that ghastly place whenever I can. Wreaks havoc with my hair. No, indeed, I would never arrange a rendezvous in the _dungeons_!"  
  
Albus made a moue of surprise. Not huge surprise, though: a good memory was not one of James' more notable attributes.  
  
"Speaking of rendezvous, though," continued Marie-Jeanette, "did you get the invitation to Victoire's engagement party yet?"  
  
"No. Is it soon?"  
  
"Halloween. How _original_. I still cannot believe the girl is getting married! She's only twenty-two. _Throwing_ her life away."  
  
"I suppose she's in love," said Albus. Marie-Jeanette made a very unladylike noise.  
  
"That's neither here nor there. She can be in love all she wants - marriage has nothing to do with it. The world is more civilized now than when our parents married. _Thirty_. Now there's a reasonable age to be wed. By the time Victoire is thirty she'll probably be _divorced_."  
  
"Don't let Aunt Fleur hear you say that," warned Albus.   
  
Aunt Fleur was ecstatic that Victoire, one-time page three model for Weasley's Wicked Wheezes, had succumbed to matrimony and, more importantly, respectability. The fact that Terry Boot was over twenty years Victoire's senior was neither here nor there: he was a multi-millionaire Curse Breaker. That was all Aunt Fleur needed to know.  
  
"Don't worry," said Marie-Jeanette. "Between pretending to Vicky that I'm delighted for her - to Terry that I don't think he's a disgusting old letch - to Teddy that _of course_ he still doesn't have feelings for Vicky - and to everyone that this isn't a stupendously ridiculous idea, lying to Maman will be a piece of cake. At least you'll be there. I can pour my troubles into your ear when no one else is listening."  
  
"It should be a good party, then?"  
  
"Oh, certainly. Gauntlets thrown down, fisticuffs before dawn. All the usual party entertainment. And, joy upon joy, Maman has got Tomaz to do the catering."  
  
"Is that ... wise?"  
  
" _Wise_? Surely you jest. Tomaz is family - or close enough. Grandma would never let Maman hear the end of it if she did _not_ employ Tomaz's services. Ergo, we shall finely dine upon half-scorched lumps of dragon meat and whale. _Oh_! Did _anyone_ ever have such a complicated, frustrating family?"  
  
Albus thought of Crystal, feeding her son so she wouldn't eat herself. He thought of the dour and silent Mr Malfoy, the glittering Mrs Malfoy, and complicated, mixed-up Scorpius.   
  
Then he shook his head. _Their_ families were complicated. _His_ family - with his famous father, his filthy-rich relations, his stuck-up cousins, George and his semi-legal inventions, and Uncle Charlie's boyfriend, who could never be prevailed upon _not_ to cook whenever the occasion arose - was _insane._  
  
"No," agreed Albus. "No one but us."


	4. Chapter 4

_Watch out for love  
(unless it is true,   
and every part of you says yes including the toes),   
it will wrap you up like a mummy,   
and your scream won't be heard  
and none of your running will end._  
(Anne Sexton)  
  
Over the past week and a half, Albus had become a rapid-fire expert on not catching his own eye in the mirror. It wasn't that he was afraid of what he might see - not exactly. After all, the prospect couldn't be worse than the one he'd examined every day for the last three years or so. His emotion was closer to hope, stretched midway between anxiety and throat-crushing desire. A nice, simple jolt of fear would be vastly preferable.  
  
Albus made a bargain with himself. The Big Reveal - his mind's eye insisted on the capitals - would take place the night of Victoire's engagement party. Either way, he'd face up to the reality of his face, be it changed or unchanged. And not a minute before. He'd even taken to avoiding spoons in case he should catch sight of his face in them, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground wherever he walked.  
  
The week leading up to Halloween was an ideal one in which to hide a secret. Mum and Dad lamented the commercialisation and Muggleisation of the celebration, which was certainly of epic proportions. Albus could vaguely remember when Halloween simply meant a few carved pumpkins on the mantlepiece and an extra-special chicken dinner the night before. But he quite liked Halloween the way it was now, replete with pranks, gift exchanges, lugubrious decorations and a distressing predominance of the colour orange.   
  
Any other week, the fact that Albus looked and acted a little differently from usual might have been remarked upon. Now, only Titania noticed; and briefly, at that. Her commentary on the situation consisted of announcing: 'You've been squinting a lot recently - do you think you need specs?' Norma and Rambo were fixated on the Halloween edition of Crosswords for Crazies, which promised to be the most challenging yet. The only way to gain their absolute and undivided attention was to speak in cryptic clues - which was a lot harder to do than simply yelling or hitting them with a wand till they listened, as Albus soon discovered.  
  
As for Scorpius, he was off in dreamworld, when he wasn't off in the real world too. Outside of class, Albus saw Scorpius perhaps about once a week, and then only briefly. He claimed prefect duties ate up his time. Albus gave him the benefit of the doubt, despite the fact that Conan seemed to have hours to spare for Chess Club and lounging around with chocolates and comics. Still, Albus could easily believe prefecting in Slytherin to be a more onerous task than in Hufflepuff, where the main rule infraction was midnight feasting.  
  
The school emptied out in the days leading up to the Halloween weekend. Headmaster Longbottom had long since yielded to the inevitable and scheduled lightly during this week. Many students had huge family functions or feasts to attend, or formed part of the retinue attending the grand Ministry Halloween Ball. It was being held in the Millenium Dome this year, which was ostensibly 'closed for repairs' to the Muggles. For the half of the school remaining behind, there were the usual festivities. Headmaster Longbottom was reported to have hired the Skeleton Key Choir to play, which was the only thing Albus didn't slightly regret missing. He wasn't a fan of the Skeletons, although if Hexed were performing he would have braved even Aunt Fleur's wrath to stay behind and see them.  
  
Albus also had the dubious consolation of Scorpius' company at the blessed event. In truth, Albus intended to rely far more on Marie-Jeanette to keep him entertained.   
  
The Malfoys had minor social cachet through Mrs Malfoy in general and, for this party, her friendship with Albus' mother in particular. Scorpius had already said his father wouldn't attend. This Albus could only consider to be a good thing. Even leaving aside the murky history Mr Malfoy had with practically every one of Albus' relations, his very presence tended to be a dampener at most gatherings. Scorpius inherited his penchant for gloominess, along with his razor-blade nose and cottony hair.  
  
As the day of reckoning approached, Albus' stomach twisted itself up in knots. At first he could ignore them, but they became so tight and so numerous that the only time he got any relief was the brief moments before he woke fully in the mornings. It got so the Big Reveal would be a relief, even if it turned out to Reveal nothing.  
  
Class on Friday was a joke. Professor Redding assigned the few remaining students to cut up herbs for pinch-drying. Albus listlessly plied his knife. Norma and Rambo were having a grand old time, snipping their fennel into strips to make crossword boxes and the sage leaves into letters. Albus had no doubt they'd cover the whole desk with their game before Professor Redding clued in.   
  
He almost wished he could join them - several tables had already amalgamated to 'work together' - but he'd tried and failed to divine the attraction of crosswords. He didn't have a large enough vocabulary to make it worthwhile and the clues irritated him. Titania had done the same to no effect; they both confessed to feeling rather left out by the others' bonding. But Titania wasn't in this class and Scorpius was god knew where, so Albus was all alone.  
  
He put up a hand to brush hair out of his eyes, for he was bent low with boredom and it needed a cut. His heart tensed as his fingers momentarily touched soft, dry skin. Perhaps that meant - _surely_ that meant -  
  
Before Albus' now-stricken heart could start racing, Scorpius sauntered into the room a good half-hour late, and distracted him.  
  
Scorpius apologised to Professor Redding without a discernable lack of sincerity. She waved it off, her eyes never lifting from the heavy book of lore perched in her lap. When Scorpius reached the desk he shared with Albus, the first thing he said was, "She's got a copy of Wicked Wizards tucked behind the worthy tome. I never knew men could bend like that."  
  
Albus' cheeks flushed. "Are you serious?"  
  
"If I was making it up, I'd have said it was a cookery magazine," said Scorpius. "That would be far more damaging to her reputation, believe me."  
  
"I suppose the teachers are just as distracted as us," said Albus thoughtfully.   
  
"It's a distracting time." Scorpius laced his fingers behind his head and stretched. The gesture gave Albus ample time to appreciate how rumpled was Scorpius' robe and hair, and the fact that he was missing three buttons. Scorpius caught Albus' appraising gaze and raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Did you get in a _fight_ or something?" demanded Albus. "I thought you were over all that."   
  
Scorpius had gone through a period in fourth year where he landed detention every day for fist-fighting. Albus deplored the situation, uselessly, until he discovered that challenging Scorpius to broom-races worked off his excess energy just as well. Albus still disliked flying intensely, but he refused to be conquered by it; those endless hours in the air had certainly helped familiarity breed contempt.  
  
He was forcibly reminded of that time by the fierce, unfocused look in Scorpius' eyes. Back then, Scorpius had often said, "If only I could give you some of this - this madness floating inside of me. It'd light you up; it just sets me on fire." Albus had been particularly unwell that year; visited St Mungo's for extensive periods five or six times. He'd slept a lot. Most of his memories involved being shaken awake by people - usually Scorpius - at regular intervals. Just after that was when Healer Bilharzia came on the scene.   
  
"No, I wasn't in a fight." Scorpius' lips quirked. "Don't worry, Mother Albus."  
  
"I'm not," Albus shot back. "I just don't want to explain to _your_ mother why you're in detention instead of attending Victoire's party."  
  
"You'd love any excuse to talk to my mother, don't lie," said Scorpius. Albus scowled and turned a shoulder on him, hunching over his diced St Anne's Lace. Sometimes Scorpius was _insufferable._  
  
"Aw, don't get huffy," said Scorpius. He leaned his chin on Albus' shoulder, rendering chopping rather difficult. "Admit it, you'd rather be in detention than at this party too."  
  
"I'm looking forward to seeing Mum and everyone," protested Albus, a little too vehemently.  
  
"Yeah," said Scorpius. "And the soggy canapés and soggy handshakes and soggy comments about how you've grown and what you've learned lately and probably some about ugly ducklings and swans? Looking forward to those, too?"  
  
Albus pressed his lips together. For a fleeting moment he thought of the skin under his fingers when he'd touched his forehead. _Tomorrow_ , his mind whispered.   
  
"Not everything's perfect all the time," he said. He shrugged Scorpius off his shoulder and handed him a knife. "You do the rest."  
  
"Yes _ma'am_ ," said Scorpius gaily. Albus ignored him. Sometimes it was the only way.  
  
+++  
  
During Potions, Albus arranged to meet Scorpius in the Entrance Hall at six on Saturday evening. This turned out to be a fortuitous move, for he didn't see his friend again all day. Scorpius didn't turn up for any meals, never once visited the Clubhouse, and the Slytherin team practicing on the Quidditch Pitch claimed he was a no-show.  
  
"And tell him from me," said the captain, Barney Louche, "that if he doesn't come to the next one, he's off the team. If you can find him, that is," he added, to guffaws from his assembled teammates.  
  
"Okay," said Albus and, because politeness was the cement-mixer of life, "thanks."  
  
"He's an okay kid, that one," he heard Barney say as he walked away. "Not like his poncy brother."  
  
"What about the sister?" said someone else. "Total nut-job. She talks to animals. Dead ones."  
  
"Comes of the fame, dunnit," said Barney. "You're gonna be messed up with parents like his."  
  
Albus' mental ocean seethed between outrage and shame as he made his way up to the castle, pausing every so often to catch his breath. He got breathless more frequently lately, but he was trying to ignore it.  
  
Spurred to a rush of familial feeling by Barney's derogatory comments, Albus searched the sparse crowds for his siblings at lunchtime. But neither was to be seen. It was unlike James to miss a feed, but he was probably already primping himself for the night ahead. Albus had never met a vainer boy than his brother. As for Lily, it was more remarkable to see her at mealtimes than not, as she usually took sandwiches to deserted classrooms and ate them there. Albus joined her sometimes, more so he could reassure his parents that she was still alive than for her scintillating conversation.  
  
At five o'clock Albus left the Clubhouse, burdened down with toy bats from crackers, a homemade mobile created by Titania from remnants of the Daily Prophet, and a crossword Norma and Rambo had devised themselves. 'It's bound to be far harder than anything you'd buy in a shop!" said Norma, as if this were something to be proud of. Their creations fell a little flat without Scorpius' genius to enliven them, but the last two months had taught all four not to expect much of Scorpius any longer.  
  
Conan was the only one present in the dorm when Albus arrived, puffing. Eoghan had gone home for the Tralee Halloween festival two days before, leaving behind him a lighter atmosphere and a far more relaxed Conan. Conan currently lay on his bed in a shirt and boxer shorts, something he wouldn't dare do when Eoghan was around. Apparently, a gay man's bare legs made homosexuality catching.  
  
Conan looked up as Albus entered and garbled out, "Happy Halloween!"   
  
"Happy Halloween," said Albus. He dumped his stash on his bed.  
  
Conan swallowed his chocolate and said, "I'd give you some of my booty, but you'd probably come out in hives."  
  
"It's a hazard of being me," agreed Albus. "Thanks for the not-offer, though."  
  
"Presents?" asked Conan. When Albus nodded, Conan slid off his bed and came over to inspect them. "Ha, I think I detect Titania's handiwork here." He prodded the mobile.  
  
"They're about the only thing she knows how to make, and she was dirt broke this year," said Albus. "I can add it to my collection as the 'environmentally friendly' piece."  
  
"It's a cool custom," said Conan, sounding wistful.   
  
"Scorpius' idea, of course," said Albus. "Mainly because his allowance was stopped in second year for some reason or other." He was about to mention Scorpius' non-appearance this year, but loyalty prevented him. Into the sudden pool of silence, he blurted, "Maybe you could join in next year."  
  
"Really?" Conan's smile flickered briefly before dying. "It's sweet of you to suggest it, but Scorpius would die a thousand deaths first."  
  
Albus squirmed. "He's not - he hasn't said anything else, has he?"  
  
"Other than how I'm an unnatural freak of nature?" said Conan dryly. "No. And don't think I can't see your hand in that. But even you can't stop him sending hateful looks my way every time he sees me. Honestly, these boys. I don't know who Scorpius Malfoy thinks he's fooling."  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Albus, alert to the change in tone that accompanied Conan's last sentence.  
  
"Oh - they're just so angry at me," said Conan. "It's not like I ever did anything to them personally, but my choice of partner seems to have a deep and significant impact on _their_ lives. It's crazy."  
  
"I suppose it was a pity you had to tell everyone now," said Albus. "People tend to get more tolerant as they get older. At least, my dad stopped wanting to kill Scorpius' dad a few decades back. Now they just utterly detest each other."  
  
"I don't want to live a lie," said Conan.  
  
"I think everyone lives a lie, in some way or another." Albus sighed a little, but not so Conan could hear. "Anyway, I've got to get ready now. My cousin Victoire's engagement party is tonight in the Starview Lounge."  
  
"Ooh, very fancy," said Conan. "Make sure you get one of those famous cocktails."  
  
"Of course," said Albus. "It's not like I'm underage or prohibited from alcohol or anything like that."  
  
"Oops, forgot again." Conan made a face.  
  
"Don't worry, everyone does," said Albus. "And Scorpius will sneak enough drink for the both of us, never fear."  
  
He grinned at Conan as he stepped away from the shadow of his bed, right into the path of the rising moon. Conan gasped.  
  
"Albus!" he said, in awed tones.   
  
"What? I'm not bleeding, am I?" The spontaneous nosebleeds were a less than dignified portion of Albus' memories.  
  
"No, you're -" Conan stepped forward, hand out. Albus thought he would touch his face, but instead Conan's hand dropped to his shoulder and propelled him into the bathroom. " _Look_."  
  
Albus looked.  
  
+++  
  
Wonder of wonders: Scorpius was ready and waiting for _him_ when Albus finally emerged into the Entrance Hall. He'd taken a shortcut through a maze of tapestries, so he took a minute to zap off the dust before confronting Scorpius.  
  
Scorpius was swathed in deep blue velvet with white edgings. He'd taken the time to comb out his hair so it swung around his face in shining curtains, but the expression on his face was anything but attractive. His brow was creased and one fingernail was restlessly tapping the fob that hung from his waistcoat.  
  
"You're late," he snapped, striding forward to pull Albus out of the tapestry. "And what are you doing, hovering in there like a demented gryphon?"  
  
"It's dusty," said Albus. Scorpius didn't give him time to explain further, instead checking his watch with an impatient flick of the wrist. A new wristlet adorned it, nestling between the watch and the old friendship bracelet Albus had inexpertly woven for him in first year.  
  
"Halloween prize?" asked Albus, his eyes on the wristlet. It was sturdy black leather strung with carved and burned chunks of bone. Mermaid, Albus guessed, from the opalescent sheen. It was both a highly prized and gruesome relic.  
  
His question must have come out sharper than intended, for Scorpius' eyes winked black.   
  
"What's it to you?" he asked.  
  
Albus shrugged. "Not a thing." He wanted to leave it at that - to preserve a shred of dignity. But he couldn't help himself. "Of course, it's always nice to be remembered by your _friends_ on _Halloween_."  
  
"No need to be so subtle," snarled Scorpius. He thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled out a box, which he threw at Albus. Albus missed the catch and the box hit the floor, with a distressing tinkle of breakage.  
  
"I'm sorry I was busy," said Scorpius. "I'm sorry I have a _life_ , one not involving puzzles and food and - anyway. But I didn't _forget_."  
  
"Go on," said Albus. "Say it. Not involving annoying sick people."  
  
"I wasn't going to say that! I never say that!"  
  
"Yeah. I think that's the problem." Albus crouched down to pick up the box. The lid had popped off and the interior showed the ruins of crystal and jade, lying in shattered chunks on the satin lining.   
  
Albus' hood - put up to guard against cobwebs and worse on the shortcut passage - slipped back as he stood. He met Scorpius' gaze, intending to ask what the present had been and, maybe, to offer an apology.  
  
What he saw in Scorpius' face dissolved the words on his tongue. There was a mixture of understandable surprise and mystifying horror. Albus went to touch his cheek, thinking that he and Conan had got it wrong; that the light or the mirror had played a trick. But Scorpius was faster. Both his palms clamped around Albus' head, painfully tight. Albus' back was against the stone wall in seconds as Scorpius leaned in, hard thumbs ripping down his cheekbones as if to peel off a mask.  
  
"What happened?" Scorpius whispered, choking on the words. "Oh holy Merlin, what have you _done_?"  
  
" _What_?" Rage rendered Albus suddenly strong. He wrenched himself out of Scorpius' grip, so fast he was sure he lost a layer of skin. "What are you talking about, you idiot?"  
  
"Your face." If it hadn't been so awful, Scorpius' tones of direst tragedy would have been comical. "It's all wrong. What did you do to it?"  
  
"Stop being stupid! It's not wrong, it's right - finally. I thought you of all people would be happy. Weren't you sick of hanging around with an ugly git for a best mate? I assumed that's why we never see you anymore."  
  
"Hey, that's not - it's not what you think. It's not _you_." Scorpius' pale skin always looked ugly when he blushed, in blotches instead of all over like a normal person. "But this - is it a spell? Can you reverse it?"  
  
"No!" shouted Albus. "It's a bloody potion and it works, why would I want to reverse it?"  
  
 _"You're beautiful," said Conan.  
  
"Don't be silly," said Albus. He talked to Conan's reflection, still too entranced to tear his eyes away from the mirror. "I'm a boy."  
  
"But it's true," insisted Conan. "It's not even a line, because if I hit on you Scorpius would eat my face."  
  
"And I'm straight," Albus pointed out.  
  
"Yeah," said Conan. "But look. It's like you, only -"  
  
"Better?" suggested Albus. Conan grinned.  
  
The effect was ... magical. It was the only way to describe it. A month ago, when Albus first started using Bilharzia's highly experimental potion, he thought he could see changes develop here and there. His limbs felt stronger. The weight-lifting exercises he did to combat the calcium-drain from his treatments finally took hold in his muscles, shaping and tautening them. He thought the chapped look went from his face; that his hair was less lank and dead-looking. But these things might all have been chance, might all have been imagination.  
  
"The last week," Bilharzia promised. "According to the skin cycle. With the enchantments and the properties of the potion, it will all come together on the twenty-eighth day. Then you will see miracles!" And, because she was at heart an honest women, she finished with, "Hopefully."  
  
The spots were gone. The spots were gone. The spots were gone.  
  
In their place, Albus had smooth, pale skin. James was tanned, but James hadn't gone for years with a protective layer of acne between him and the sun. Albus' cheekbones were sharper than he remembered, his mouth fuller, his eyebrows darker. His hair shone.  
  
"You're hotter than James now," said Conan. "I say this with complete objectivity."  
  
Albus just grinned harder, and didn't object when Conan squeezed his shoulders a second longer than he should have.   
  
He'd finally won._  
  
He'd finally won, and Scorpius was trying to take it all away from him.  
  
"I don't understand." Albus looked at Scorpius in bewilderment. "I thought you'd be _happy_ for me."  
  
Scorpius just stared at him for a long, long moment. When he spoke, it was in the voice of a stranger.   
  
"We'd better get going," he said. "We're already late."  
  
+++   
  
Albus huddled in a corner with Marie-Jeanette, grimacing at Scorpius' back.  
  
"No, do not do that!" begged Marie-Jeannette. "Your face is smooth now, it is a pity to crinkle it up so."  
  
"I can't help it," Albus ground out. Every time he caught a glimpse of Scorpius, looking carefree and distracted as usual, Albus' heart began to tattoo his anger on his ribcage. "I just can't believe he's being so horrible to me."  
  
"He's jealous," said Marie-Jeanette, for perhaps the twelfth time. For once, Albus didn't bother with the scathing retort that Scorpius was ten times better-looking than Albus without even trying. Marie-Jeanette grew up being compared to a stunning model who was so insecure about her looks, she lived off carrot sticks and bottled water. Maybe she knew what she was talking about.  
  
"Pray, pray," said Marie-Jeanette a minute later, "do not remain in this sulk all night. This is your moment to shine. In a few days everyone will forget you were not always this handsome. You should make the most of your transformation."  
  
"And do what?" asked Albus. "Score some extra chewed-up cows' hooves?" Scorpius was right about the canapés, of course.  
  
"There is a pretty girl over there who has been scowling at me for the past twenty minutes," Marie-Jeanette informed him. "Go, chat her up!"  
  
"She's probably related to me," said Albus.   
  
All the same, he obeyed his cousin. Marie-Jeanette might look like a cross between Aunt Hermione and an owl, but there were times when she demonstrated just how much tempestuousness she'd inherited from her mother.  
  
On his way across the room, Albus bumped into his Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill was not as happily reconciled to his eldest daughter's impending nuptials as his wife, so he was slowly but surely getting very drunk indeed.   
  
"Al!" he cried. "Look at you, all dolled up and nowhere to go. Could you get some of that potion for my face, do you think?"  
  
"Do you have acne?" asked Albus, rather confused. "I'm afraid it only works on that."  
  
"Pity," said Uncle Bill. "Scar-removal cream, that's what I need." He went off into a gall of hiccupy laughter at this witticism. Albus blinked politely. Uncle Bill had a few pale scars across his face, but they'd always been there. Albus thought he'd look stranger without them.  
  
And then it hit him why Scorpius was in such a foul mood.  
  
Turning on his heel, in the opposite direction from the disappointed probably-relative, Albus headed in the direction of the bar. He'd last spotted Scorpius going that way (for the fourth time). He passed Lily, contentedly reading a book on dissection under a palm tree. He saw the swish of Scorpius' white-edged robes disappearing through the balcony door and sped up, only to be accosted by Rose.  
  
"What?" he snapped. Dealing with Rose was not something he relished at the best of times, which this wasn't. He barely noted the fact that she looked wan under her sloppily applied makeup. _Rose, with less than perfect mascara?_ wondered a part of Albus' brain, while the rest screamed _Go Away, Rose!_  
  
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" muttered Rose. Her pouty lower lip was chapped and flaking. Albus' used to be like that.  
  
Albus wasn't in the mood for yet another rhapsody over his miraculous make-over. He quickly tired of the sentiment that he was now worth something because his face no longer looked like road kill. Rose, as the grand mistress of the superficial school of thought, could only be more tiresome than the rest.  
  
"It'll have to wait," he said. "I kind of need to find Scorpius right now."  
  
"Oh, really?" Rose's face jerked. She usually donned a supercilious expression whenever Scorpius was mentioned, but if Albus didn't know better, he'd say that right now she looked scared.   
  
"I don't suppose you've seen him?" asked Albus. He didn't expect a reply, and was gone before Rose finished shaking her head.  
  
The air outside promised snow come morning, chasing all but the hardiest to the warmth of the inner banqueting room. It was a pity, for the balcony provided a spectacular view, both of the dank glitter of London and the stars above. Mother-of-pearl telescopes were set up at intervals along the parapet for those who desired a more intimate view of the heavens.  
  
Mrs Malfoy informed him, a little tipsily, that she'd seen Scorpius go up to the viewing deck. According to the promotional literature, this was a glass bubble that allowed one to focus in on the solar system of their choice at the flick of a wand. What Scorpius wanted there - having no interest in astronomy and no legal right to use magic - Albus had no idea. A quiet place to drink and sulk, probably.  
  
Or, as it turned out, a quiet place to drink and be sucked off.  
  
+++  
  
Albus stumbled back down the stairwell, much too shocked to be discreet. Behind him, he could hear soft curses and the rustle of clothing hastily pulled shut.  
  
"No, wait here!" Scorpius said sharply. The voices fell into murmuring again as Albus sank against the stone wall. His breath whistled in and out of his lungs, bringing searing pain with every gulp.   
  
He listened to Scorpius' cat-light tread on the stairs as he tried to breathe normally. Scorpius came to a halt just behind him and crossed his arms.   
  
"Well?" he said, and Albus could have forgiven everything but that flippant tone. "I presume you have something to say to me. C'mon, out with it."  
  
Albus turned his face, yet too weak to lift it properly. The back of his head scraped against the wall. He stared at Scorpius and Scorpius stared back, the epitome of supreme unconcern.  
  
He hadn't looked like that with his dick in someone's mouth, shoving it in hard and deep. His face in that one moment bore more expression - outside disdainful amusement - than Albus had seen in months.   
  
The embarrassment of catching Scorpius mid-blowjob and the callous disrespect Scorpius showed by engaging in such activities at a family party, where his own little sister and numerous children were running free; neither were beyond Albus' powers of coping. Only one thing was beyond them, and it was: when Scorpius shifted, moaning, the hand he had clenched in the other person's hair rose enough to show a rapidly working throat, and an Adam's apple.  
  
"You're a fucking hypocrite," said Albus. He was surprised at how calm it came out: the excitement of the night, added to dashing down three flights of stairs, had drained him considerably.   
  
"I don't know what you think you saw -" began Scorpius.  
  
"I saw enough." Albus closed his eyes. They throbbed. "Enough to know you're just as much of a freak as you claim Conan is. You like boys too, and you hated _him_ for it." He opened his eyes into Scorpius' shocked face. "So. You're a fucking hypocrite."  
  
"Yeah, but at least -"  
  
"Save it." Albus heaved himself upright; took one, shaky step, then another. "Save it forever, Scorpius Malfoy. I never want to talk to you again."  
  
"Wait!" Scorpius grabbed his arm. His wrist prominently displayed the mermaid-bone bracelet. A gift from a boy, Albus supposed. No girl would have such execrable taste. Albus just hoped the blowjobs were worth it.  
  
He didn't say anything, just looked at Scorpius' hand like it was a slug. Eventually, Scorpius dropped it and stepped back.  
  
Albus walked away, and wondered why he still couldn't breathe.


	5. Chapter 5

_Yet if you should forget me for a while  
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:  
For if the darkness and corruption leave  
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,  
Better by far you should forget and smile  
Than that you should remember and be sad._  
(Christina Rossetti)  
  
When Albus awoke the next morning, a gleeful cramp of nausea ambushed his stomach. He struggled with the ensuing confusion - the sick anticipation was normal, but he knew the cause for it was gone. The Reveal was over; he was perfect now.  
  
 _Scorpius_.  
  
Albus rolled over and crushed his head into the pillow. He only realised he was shaking when he pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to rub the stray hairs out of it. His fringe really needed a cut.   
  
His mind felt broken in half. It shook around inside his skull every time he tried to think of something innocuous. Sausages for breakfast? Yes, but what about the look on Scorpius' face when Albus denounced him? His mouth tasted furry; toothpaste beckoned. Very true, but didn't Scorpius deserve what he'd got? For his deceit and - worse - his hypocrisy?   
  
Albus could understand lying about the small things. Sometimes it was easier to tell Titania that her hair looked fine than to get into a huge debate about the relative merits of blonde highlights against a snowy complexion. But this issue was bigger than hair. This was a whole facet of Scorpius' personality that he'd lied about, blatantly and viciously.  
  
The different arguments were ganging up on each other. Albus put his hands to his temples as if that would cure the thumping of his thoughts. When the curtains rustled, he didn't hear, and consequently fell sideways in fright when Rambo's head stuck through the gap.  
  
"All right?" he asked, eyeing Albus with some concern. For some reason, Rambo's round, jolly face made Albus want to cry - something none of the awful events of the last twelve hours had achieved. Rambo's world today was the same as yesterday. It wasn't _fair_.  
  
"Mmm," said Albus. He checked his watch. "Wait - it's not seriously eleven o'clock, is it?"  
  
"Yes, it is," said Rambo. "That's why I came to wake you. I would have come earlier, only Norma and I got engrossed in figuring out 'matching paper' and ... anyway." He frowned. "Didn't Scorpius send someone to wake you?"  
  
"Obviously not," snapped Albus. Rambo blinked, big and slow. Albus instantly felt bad. Too bad to apologise. Instead he swung his legs out of bed. "I suppose there's not a single drop of hot water left."  
  
"Hello, Eoghan, what did you do with Albus' brain?" said Rambo.   
  
"Shut up."  
  
"Oh - hey, your face is different."  
  
"Yeah, I'd noticed," said Albus.  
  
"Looked better when you weren't scowling, though." Rambo headed for the door. "I got Norma to save you some hash browns. See you later."  
  
Albus curled his hand around the bedpost as he stared at Rambo's retreating bulk. His body felt hot and heavy; his eyes smarted and his tongue ached to call Rambo back. But he didn't. To pretend that things were normal when they weren't would have been the final betrayal.  
  
+++  
  
Thanks to almost missing a meal, Albus was thrown off kilter for the rest of the day. A Potions essay - completed but for the finishing touches Albus hoped would bring a happy gleam to Professor Redding's eye - mocked him. He abandoned the common room early, evaded one or two more unflatteringly surprised comments about his face, and went to bed.  
  
Many people noticed the change - far more than Albus calculated even knew his name. Then again, his father was famous. Dad was famous in the way a former politician was famous, but still, people always knew the surname. Albus was reconciled to hearing himself referred to as 'the one who's not James,' but the tacked-on 'he used to be the Elephant Man, what happened?' was a new and unwelcome addition. The only bright spot had been seeing Christine's face. Her not-so-veiled comments over the years had made Albus chew his tongue on several occasions. The smirk was on the other side of her face now.  
  
Albus walked in on Conan wearing nothing but tartan boxers, singing along lustily to Hexed. ' _The act of being observed is just an act_ ," Conan told his hairbrush. " _If you're not observing, you might as well play dead_ ... oh! Hey, Albus."  
  
"Nice voice," said Albus. It came out sounding sarcastic rather than amused. Fortunately, Conan didn't appear to notice.  
  
"Do you think I'd get far in Magic Idol?" he asked, waggling his hips.  
  
"In those boxers?" said Albus. "Not unless my Aunt Minerva was judging."  
  
"These are very stylish underpants, I'll have you know," protested Conan.  
  
"I'll take your word for it." Albus flopped down on his bed with a sigh. He'd like nothing more than to sleep where he lay, but his jeans were tight and his shoes were pinching. Besides, sleeping fully clothed was only something one did when drunk or depressed.   
  
"Hey." The bed dipped slightly. Albus didn't open his eyes. "Are you okay? You seem down."  
  
"I'm not down," said Albus. "I just had a fight with Scorpius."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"A big one," Albus felt compelled to add. "A world-ending friendship Armageddon. I told him I never wanted to speak to him again."  
  
"What did he do this time?"  
  
"I - I can't say. But - hey. What do you mean, 'this time'?"  
  
"You two are always fighting." The bed shifted again, and Conan's leg bumped Albus'. "I always thought it must be completely exhausting being Scorpius' friend. His moods are up and down like a yoyo - he's occasionally violent - and talk about irrational. I mean, what do _you_ get out of it?"  
  
"He is - was - my friend," said Albus stiffly. "That's what I got out of it."  
  
"Right," said Conan, in a way that meant 'wow, wrong.' "I wonder - no."  
  
"What?" said Albus, through a yawn.  
  
"Nothing." Conan stood up. The bed bounced; Albus gritted his teeth. "Guess what I found out today? Hexed are playing the Hog's Head next weekend."  
  
The world and all its cares were instantly sloughed from Albus' mind. He sat bolt upright. "Are you _serious_? Where'd you hear that? Why wasn't it on their tour schedule?"  
  
"It's a last-minute addition - very select." Conan grinned. "Luckily for me, my cousin works in the bar. He got me two tickets - at an extortionist price, of course."  
  
"Oh, blimey," said Albus. "You lucky, lucky bastard. Who are you taking?"  
  
Conan cleared his throat. "Well, you. If you're interested."  
  
"Are you kidding? Interested? I'd marry you for those tickets!" Albus' face fell. "But ... next weekend? That's not a Hogsmeade weekend. We'll never get permission to go."  
  
"Albus, my man," said Conan. "Who said anything about getting permission?"  
  
+++  
  
Rambo cornered Albus at the Clubhouse on Monday evening. Albus expected it; he just hadn't expected it so soon, counting on Norma and crosswords to distract Rambo for a few more days.  
  
"You've had a face like a wet week since that party," said Rambo, "and now I hear you and Scorpius had a fight. What's up?"  
  
"Nothing," said Albus. "It's none of your business."  
  
Rambo went quiet for a second. Albus folded his limbs into a hammock. It seemed a long time before Rambo followed him; Albus almost wondered if he even would.  
  
Instead of curling in beside him as Scorpius would have done, Rambo stood in front of Albus. It was probably for the best: Dudley's genetics combined with Crystal's proxy feeding resulted in Rambo having essentially the same proportions as a brick. Albus, though short, was no lightweight either. They'd probably have collapsed the hammock if they sat in it together. When Scorpius - but it was irrelevant to think of that.  
  
"Scorpius is a bit of bastard," said Rambo. Albus' lower lip dropped. That wasn't the opener he'd expected. "But, you know, he always has been. Even as a titchy kid he had a rotten side to his personality. And you're pretty smart, so why are you only realising that now?"  
  
"You think we fought over the fact that Scorpius is a bastard?"  
  
"No," said Rambo, "I think Scorpius did something because he's a bastard, and now you're mad at him for it. My point is that it's like accusing a shark of murder. It's in a shark's nature to eat and maim other fish."  
  
"I ... Scorpius isn't a fish," said Albus.  
  
Rambo favoured him with a long, cool look. "Yes," he said, "I know."  
  
"I don't think you do," said Albus. "This time, it's - okay, it's like Scorpius acted like a shark, but all along, he's actually been an orca whale."  
  
"I kind of wish I hadn't started the sea life metaphor now," said Rambo, after a minute. "I have _no idea_ what you're talking about."  
  
"Pretend it's a cryptic clue," snapped Albus. "Pretend he's seven down and I'm eleven across. A three-letter word meaning betrayal."  
  
"He'd _betrayed_ you?" said Rambo. "How on earth - can't you just tell me what he's done? Scorpius won't say a word on the subject, of course."  
  
Albus stubbornly shook his head. It wasn't his place to out Scorpius. Even if he did, it wouldn't make Scorpius face up to himself. Albus wanted that still, and not only because it would be painful - although the ouch factor did account for at least sixty percent of his reasoning.  
  
"This will be tricky," sighed Rambo. "Do you want to ban him from the Clubhouse, because -"  
  
"He never comes here anyway," said Albus.  
  
"That's true," said Rambo. "I was about to say: because it would be unfair. I can't take sides unless I know the full story."  
  
"You wouldn't take sides anyway," said Albus.  
  
"I'd take yours," said Rambo. "You're my friend more than Scorpius - Scorpius is only anyone's friend because of you. But then again, you're usually more honest than this."  
  
"I _can't_ ," Albus burst out.   
  
"Fine." Rambo looked a little lost. "But won't you fix it - please? Everything's all wrong like this."  
  
Albus thought of Scorpius' present, smashed into a million saw-edged fragments. "There's no going back this time," he said. "You'll just have to get used to it the way it is."  
  
"The way it is _sucks_ ," said Rambo, with unaccustomed violence, and slammed out of the room.  
  
Albus huddled deeper into the hammock. One of the advantages of the Clubhouse was that, no matter the season, it was always the right temperature. But right now Albus felt chilled.  
  
He didn't have long to ruminate - Scorpius, who knew the emotion well, would have called it sulking - before the Clubhouse door banged open again. Albus' heart soared sickeningly as he hoped, for an instant, it was Scorpius.  
  
It was Norma, and Albus was furious at himself for wishing it wasn't.  
  
"Oh, hello," she said, seeming distracted.  
  
"Hey," he returned.  
  
"Seen Rambo lately?" she asked. "Looked everywhere. At least five places. Not a sign."  
  
"He left here just ten minutes ago," said Albus.  
  
Norma huffed. "Any indication where he went?"  
  
"No," said Albus, "but I'd guess the common room. Isn't it snowing outside?"  
  
"A mild drift," said Norma, dismissing the gale howling through the eaves. "Didn't mention anything about the next edition, I suppose?"  
  
"Of Mad Crosswords?"  
  
"Crosswords for Crazies," Norma corrected him. She scowled, although Albus couldn't see how his title was any worse.   
  
"No. We were talking about Scorpius."  
  
"Oh, that boy," said Norma. "Sitting by the fire with a frown like thunder, staring out anyone who dares to come close. At least four first years caught cold through terror of him."  
  
"People are afraid of Scorpius?"  
  
"Yes, people are afraid of Scorpius," said Norma. " _I'm_ afraid of Scorpius sometimes, god. The faces he can make. Freezes my marrow."  
  
"We're not friends anymore," said Albus.  
  
"What did I do?" Norma looked highly indignant.  
  
"Not me and you. Me and _Scorpius_."  
  
"Ah." Norma nodded wisely. "That would explain the frown."  
  
"If he's frowning, it's not over me," said Albus bitterly.  
  
"Idiot," said Norma. "When Scorpius frowns, it's always over you."  
  
Albus felt a flash of rage. At any rate it was hot and horrible, so he decided it must be rage. "It doesn't matter. I'm never talking to him again."  
  
"Reminds me - must put a bet on," said Norma. "'Never' for you is usually two weeks, isn't it? Insider knowledge is essential for dealing with Templeton Gudgeon."  
  
"How long does the Gudgeon run his bets?" asked Albus fiercely.  
  
"Six months is the longest I remember. That was for -" Norma broke off and coughed. "Why?"  
  
"Because he'll need to open a book on 'forever'," said Albus. "I'm serious - me and Scorpius are through. And remind your boyfriend of that when you find him."  
  
"My - boyfriend?" repeated Norma. Her staccato voice became suddenly cantabile. "Who - you mean -"  
  
"Scorpius," said Albus. "Not. _Rambo_ , of course."  
  
"We're not - he's not. I."   
  
Albus stared. Norma's cheeks pinked up, requiring Albus to stare some more. Norma was harder to faze than a reticent goblin.  
  
"He fancies Minuette Nestor, all right?" Norma scowled at Albus, as though Rambo's dire taste in women was directly and wholly his fault. "He came to me for _advice_. About _asking her out_."  
  
"Oh, my god," sighed Albus. He'd expected to feel triumph the day he discovered the one thing at which Rambo didn't excel. He didn't.  
  
"Yeah, so." Norma stuck her hands on her hips. "Now you know. So don't be _stupid_ or call him my _boyfriend_ when..." she sucked in a breath of air "... he's _not_."  
  
"Okay - noted." Albus put his hands up in truce. "I just assumed -"  
  
"You assumed wrong," snarled Norma. "Even if he _asked_ , I wouldn't. So there."  
  
This time when the door slammed, the entire room shook.  
  
+++  
  
Albus felt horribly drained by the time his weekly appointment with Madam MacDougal rolled around. He ended up being late because the third flight of stairs defeated him: he'd been forced to sit and catch his breath for a full ten minutes before he could continue. He put the weakness down to the stress of recent events, coupled with a new difficulty in getting to sleep.  
  
"So, this is the famous face," said Madam MacDougal, sounding subdued. "Healer Bilharzia must be over the moon. Has she seen it yet?"  
  
"No," said Albus. "I wrote to her - but I have another appointment in two weeks. She's pretty excited, though."  
  
"I can imagine. It's quite the coup, curing acne. She stands to make a fortune."  
  
Albus prickled at what he thought was resentment in Madam MacDougal's tone. "She deserves it. For the first time in years I can look at myself in the mirror and not want to throw up. That's worth any price."  
  
"Indeed?" said Madam MacDougal. "But at what cost?" At a flick of her wand, a spignometer wrapped itself around Albus' arm. "I had Scorpius Malfoy in here yesterday," she added, when the silence had just lulled Albus into a false sense of security.  
  
"Huh," said Albus, but only because it would have been ruder to say nothing.   
  
"He got into another fight," continued Madam MacDougal. "He was rather badly banged up - two black eyes and a broken arm, not to mention a dozen cuts and scrapes. I did my best, but he'll be feeling it today."  
  
Albus' cheeks puffed with the effort of not crying out. It was hard to believe that Scorpius could break his arm and Albus wouldn't know about it. It was harder to believe that, after everything, Albus still cared.  
  
"I thought you were helping him to stay out of trouble?" said Madam MacDougal, with deceptive disingenuousness.   
  
Albus shrugged.  
  
"He wouldn't tell me what the fight was about, but Roe Negworthy came in a few hours later with a nose the size of a watermelon, and sprouting alfalfa instead of hair. I'm not a genius, but I imagine the two events aren't unconnected."  
  
"Roe Negworthy?" Albus couldn't stop himself. Roe and Scorpius were nothing like friends, but Albus would have put Roe on the 'good acquaintance' side of the equation, not the 'potential punching bag' one.  
  
"Teachers talk about two kinds of students," said Madam MacDougal. "The best and the worst. I stay out of it, but I do listen. And I have eyes. Scorpius might be one of the brightest wizards of your generation - especially if we don't include your cousin - but he would have gone off the rails long ago if it wasn't for you."  
  
"I hate this," complained Albus. "I'm not his keeper. If I upped and died tomorrow like I was supposed to years ago, he'd be fine."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
Albus wasn't. "Does it matter?" he asked. "Since when is it my job to be Scorpius Malfoy's keeper?"  
  
"Since you decided to become his friend, I suppose," said Madam MacDougal. "I was at school with his father, you know. Yours, too - but I knew Draco Malfoy a little." She laughed. "Everyone knew _your_ father's name, but very few could claim to know _him_. Draco, on the other hand, had quite a large circle of friends. At least, he did until he came under the Dark Lord's sway. But I've always thought someone could have prevented that - he was very persuadable. He just needed a good friend."  
  
"Scorpius isn't persuadable at all," said Albus.  
  
"Not in the general run of things," agreed Madam MacDougal. "There, that's it." She frowned at the sparkling pink data. "Your peak flow volume is down to 350. Do you have a cold?"  
  
"No, I'm fine," said Albus. "Fit as a fiddle, can I go?"  
  
"I suppose," said Madam MacDougal, still frowning. "But if it's not up by next week, I'll have to speak with Healer Bilharzia."  
  
"It'll be up," said Albus. "It's probably a flawed reading."  
  
"Yes, that happens sometimes," said Madam MacDougal. She gave him a speaking look. Albus opted to ignore it and skipped out.  
  
+++  
  
Albus' health deteriorated steadily throughout the week, a fact he tried - with a modicum of success - to conceal from himself. He spent most of Saturday by the common room fire with a refilling teapot in easy reach, swaddled in a vast quantity of blankets. An hour before he and Conan were due to sneak out, Albus dragged his reluctant legs upstairs to change.   
  
He didn't have a huge selection of casual clothing. His shopping choices in the last few years were aimed at rendering himself invisible, thus by necessity involving a lot of black and grey. At least the former still went with his hair, but in juxtaposition the black jeans, black shirt, black converse and black jacket made him look like an aspiring mortician. With little hope Albus rooted through his trunk. To his surprise, he discovered a sea-green scarf at the very bottom. It was still in a Malkin's bag with the tag attached.   
  
Not until he was halfway back down to the common room did Albus remember that the scarf had been a present from the person Albus used to be friends with. Albus was too tired to go and change it; by the time he got back to his armchair he didn't even have the energy to toss it into the fire.  
  
In the interval Titania had installed herself on the rug. She was lying on her stomach, scribbling over a parchment with red crayon.  
  
"Hey, Ti," he said. He put his head back against the chair and wondered if ten minutes sleep now would make up for staying up all night.   
  
"Hello?" Titania waved her hand in Albus' face when he made no further conversational sorties. "Haven't you got anything to say about my hair?"  
  
"Your -" started Albus, before his eyes caught up. "Wow. It's very - yellow."  
  
Titania rolled her eyes. "I think you'll find the correct term is 'blonde'," she said. "Do you like it?"  
  
Albus' brain scrambled for a comment that was both complimentary and honest, and tripped over itself. "Sure," he lied.   
  
As far as blonde went, Titania's hair was nothing like the person Albus used to be friends with's hair. The person Albus used to be friends with had hair the colour of sun-drenched salt. Titania's looked more like dirty brass. The shade was somewhat uneven as well, as if the dye had run out towards the end.  
  
"Did you do it yourself?" Albus hoped the answer was yes, or he'd have to kill her accomplice.  
  
"Yup. Madam Skower's DIY Dye," said Titania. "Norma hasn't seen it yet. She's gonna _die_."  
  
Albus privately thought this was all too possible.  
  
At that moment Conan jumped through the portal. He grinned when he spotted Albus, and purposely took a route close to Albus' chair so he could whisper, "Give me ten minutes to shower."  
  
Albus nodded, and Conan sprinted up the dormitory stairs. Titania followed this exchange with interest. She turned bright eyes on Albus, who squirmed under her scrutiny. Titania didn't have the penetration of Norma or the person Albus used to be friends with, nor did she possess Rambo's freaky insight, but she wasn't stupid either.  
  
"You're looking rather spiffy this evening," she observed. "Hot date?"  
  
"Yeah, totally," scoffed Albus. Then he wondered if he should have said 'yes', to throw Titania off the scent. Dates in Hogwarts, when Hogsmeade wasn't an option, entailed dressing up to walk around the Entrance Hall with someone. Seventh years often used the Astronomy Tower for this purpose, because they were the only ones with the password. During Christine's reign the person Albus used to be friends with had a knack for locating the seventh years who were willing to bend this rule (for a price), and consequently knew the layout better than the Professor.   
  
"Oh yeah?" said Titania. "Spill."  
  
"I'm not dressed up and I don't have a date," said Albus firmly. "What are you writing? Professors don't accept essays that aren't in ink, you know."  
  
"You're not getting out of it that easily," said Titania. "There's not a boy alive who'd put on aftershave just because he felt like it."  
  
"Scorpius does," said Albus, without thinking, and forgetting his rule about not calling the person he used to be friends with by name.  
  
"You can be sure Christine was behind that," said Titania. "Misdirection still not working. If you're not going on a date, you're going _somewhere_."  
  
"And what if I were? Would you dob me in?"  
  
"As if." Titania looked hurt. "I'd never do that to _you_. I'd maybe do it to Norma, if she pissed me off. Or Scorpius, because he deserves it -"  
  
"Why?" interrupted Albus, suddenly keen.  
  
"He fought with you," said Titania, "duh. But seriously, I wouldn't tattle."  
  
"I know," said Albus. "It's just - the fewer people who know, the better. In case Inquisition catches us - me, you understand."  
  
"C'mon," wheedled Titania. "I'd be a great partner in crime. I have the hair to match now and everything."  
  
Fortunately, Albus' need to reply was forestalled by the advent of Conan. Unlike Albus, Conan believed in variation in his wardrobe: he'd chosen tight indigo jeans over boots and a check shirt. He looked a bit like a cowboy, although Albus severely doubted the practicality of Conan's jeans in terms of bestriding a horse.   
  
"Nice scarf," Conan commented. "Ready?"  
  
Titania's eyes showed white all around. "Where are you _going_?" she mouthed at Albus. Albus just frowned.  
  
"She'll think we're dating," he complained to Conan as they walked out together. Conan just laughed.  
  
"Why would she think that?" he asked. He nodded to a third year Albus vaguely recognised then, as soon as she was out of sight, pulled Albus behind a statue of a singularly unattractive witch. "Can you see anyone coming?"  
  
Albus peeked around the witch's hump. "Nope."  
  
"Good," said Conan. When Albus turned around, a tunnel had opened before Conan's feet. "Coming?"  
  
"This is amazing!" said Albus. "How did you know about it?"  
  
" _Lumos_!" said Conan. As he lead the way, he explained, "Eoghan found it in second year. He's very good at discovering things." Conan's voice was a compound of wistful and sour. "It comes out under the old part of Honeydukes - where the back offices are. There shouldn't be anyone there at this time of night."  
  
"Good," said Albus. He felt a shot of nervous anxiety.   
  
Conan looked back and smiled. "I won't get us caught if I can help it," he said. The tunnel widened out, and he waited for Albus to catch up so they could walk side by side. Albus tried not to betray how laborious he found the walk and Conan strolled along, almost as if he were aware of it. Occasionally he touched Albus' elbow to get his attention, pointing out pitfalls or ancient graffiti, or just to make him listen.  
  
"I'm going to have to sit down," Albus admitted at last.   
  
"Are you okay? No, of course you're not, but can you go on?" Conan crouched down beside him, his mouth drooping with concern. The arm he put around Albus' shoulders didn't help matters, but Albus appreciated the thought behind the gesture.  
  
"Of course," he managed to answer. "I'm not very fit, that's all."  
  
"I beg to differ," said Conan, with a little laugh.   
  
"What? Oh," said Albus, and blushed. Conan grinned; for a split second, his arm tightened around Albus. Then he bounced to his feet.  
  
"We're not far from the trapdoor - I'll just go and unlatch it," he said.  
  
Albus stared at the rough wall and wished, for the first time, that he'd never taken Bilharzia's potion.  
  
+++  
  
The uncomfortable notion that Conan might be hitting on him only grew stronger as the night progressed. Albus was hyper-aware of every time Conan touched him, and discovered it to be often - far more often than could arise by chance. The touches were not intrusive, involving as they did only Albus' arm or on occasion, his shoulder, but Albus disliked them more and more. Plus, Conan smiled at him too much. He laughed at comments from Albus that were only slightly funny. Albus wondered uneasily how long Conan's feelings had surpassed friendship. He couldn't decide if he'd feel better or worse if they dated from the change in Albus' appearance.  
  
Skeleton Key Choir opened for Hexed, which at least meant Albus' mental perturbation didn't distract him from anything worth hearing. As Hexed's set approached, however, Albus began seriously considering how he could get Conan to leave him alone for a while.   
  
Inspiration struck just as the lights went up for the interval. Albus turned to Conan and rubbed his throat. "I'm feeling a bit thirsty," he said. "Could you get me a drink? I'll pay you."  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," said Conan immediately, as Albus half-expected, half-dreaded. "My treat."  
  
"Okay, thanks." Albus didn't want Conan to buy him drinks - that really was something you did on a date. On the other hand, he did want Conan to leave his vicinity.   
  
The crowd at the bar was ten deep and Conan, being young and polite, would probably be stuck there for hours. Predictably, Albus felt guilty about that, but not guilty enough to be sorry. He wormed his way through the crowd, heading for a colonnade near the stage that would provide suitable cover. He was installed there by the time Hexed's lead singer took the mike, close enough for Albus to see the sweat on his forehead from the harsh spotlights.   
  
Albus soon came to be grateful for the pillar at his back. The room was sweltering and his already wobbly legs did not appreciate the rise in temperature. He simply wasn't designed for dancing the night away - which was a pity, because Hexed were even better live than on their records. Albus tapped his foot to show willing and wished for a chair.  
  
Hexed were singing their final number by the time Conan located Albus. The drink, about which Albus had entirely forgotten, was half empty. Conan looked extremely cross. Albus couldn't help but prefer the expression to the moony one he'd sported earlier.  
  
"Hey," yelled Albus, "great show, huh?"  
  
Conan shrugged and passed over the drink. The glass was sticky; Albus decided against investigating the contents. "I guess," he yelled back. "Didn't see much."  
  
"What?"  
  
Conan shrugged again and looked at the stage. Albus did too. The bass guitarist was also a virtuoso gymnast, who could back flip while keeping the beat. He rolled his hips into his guitar and the girls went wild. Albus cheered too: a move like that would have dumped a lesser man on his backside. The expression on Conan's face lifted slightly.   
  
Hexed did three encores, by the end of which Albus was certain he had jelly flowing in his veins instead of blood. When Conan put a hand on his shoulder, Albus was forced to lean into it, instead of shrugging it off as he'd have liked to do.  
  
"You look pale," said Conan.  
  
"I'll probably need to eat something when we get back," said Albus. "The house elves know about me. They won't mind."  
  
"Lean on me," said Conan, more describing what was already occurring than issuing an invitation. Conan smelled slightly of aftershave, but more of sweat and dried beer. The cocktail of odours was far from appetising, but Albus stumbled every second step; he was in no position to complain.  
  
Albus saw dancing spots at the edge of his vision by the time they reached the stone witch. He sank on to the plinth. Air didn't seem to be getting all the way to his lungs, no matter how much he heaved. Distantly, he heard Conan say something about fetching help. It was the last thing he heard for some time.  
  
+++  
  
"You're awake!"  
  
This was the sort of daft comment Albus heard on a far too frequent basis. It always meant he'd had another attack and lost consciousness. Apparently, it also meant he'd temporarily lost the ability to tell the difference between being awake and being asleep - or so observer reaction would suggest.  
  
He wrenched open sticky eyelids and looked upon his mother's face. Dismay drowned his heart. It had to have been a bad one for his parents to be called.  
  
"Hello, darling," said Mum. It hadn't been her voice that spoke first - that honour belonged to Dad. Both his parents looked tired, and his father more than usually unkempt.  
  
"Hi Mum." Albus submitted to a hug. It was cut short when Mum sat back to say sternly: "I should be very angry at you right now. If I didn't know better, I'd swear you'd got sick on purpose to avoid punishment."  
  
"Albus wouldn't do that," said Dad. "He's straight as a die."  
  
"Avoid punishment - oh," said Albus. "We were caught."  
  
"You most certainly were." Mum half-smiled, half-frowned, a peculiar accomplishment that belonged only to mothers. "Quite spectacularly, I'd say."  
  
"At least your friend had the foresight to close the tunnel," said Dad quietly. "That's a legacy that you need to pass down to your children."  
  
The one good thing about being chronically ill was the way few people had the heart to get very angry at you, Albus reflected. "Did we get detention?"  
  
"Your friend did - Conor, is it?" said Mum. "But he claimed the concert was all his idea and that he talked you into it. Which I don't believe for a second, Albus Severus, but it was very honourable of him all the same."  
  
"And considering the state of your health, Nev - Professor Longbottom said you could just spend an afternoon cleaning cauldrons when you're better," added Dad.  
  
"What day is it?" asked Albus.  
  
"Tuesday," said Mum. "And you've been out cold the whole time. It's very strange. You usually wake up a lot - always feverish and babbling, about Scorpius usually. But this time, not once."  
  
"That Irish lad's come to visit you every day," said Dad. "I think he feels guilty. I didn't see the Malfoy boy at all. He hasn't fallen down any deep holes, by any chance?"  
  
"No," said Albus. "We had a fight and we're not friends now." He glanced at Dad. "You'll be happy, at least."  
  
Dad didn't look happy. He looked shocked and concerned, but that might just have been layover from Albus' illness.  
  
Madam MacDougal and Conan came through the curtains at the same time, identical frowns of worry bisecting each forehead. Madam MacDougal's face smoothed on seeing Albus awake.  
  
"Good morning, finally," she said. "I was beginning to think we'd need a spinning wheel and a handsome prince to wake you up."  
  
"A princess, you mean," said Albus sharply. Conan's lower lip disappeared between his teeth.  
  
"Don't underestimate the dangers of defying tradition," said Madam MacDougal. "For example, the tradition of eating properly, getting enough rest and taking all your potions correctly. Which one was it this time?"  
  
"None of them," said Albus. "I just felt faint, and now here I am."  
  
"Did you drink anything at the Hog's Head?" asked Madam MacDougal, sounding less cheerful. "Or eat?"  
  
"No - Conan brought me a drink, but I didn't have any," said Albus.  
  
Madam MacDougal made a thrumming noise. "I'll run some tests when your visitors have left."  
  
"We should be getting home," Dad said to Mum.   
  
"Yes." Mum kissed Albus' forehead, despite his attempts to wriggle away. "We'll be back tomorrow. Get better, you hear?"  
  
"Yes Mum."  
  
"I love you, darling."  
  
"Oh, _Mum_!"  
  
"I remember when you used to say 'I love you' back," grumbled Mum. Dad chuckled and pulled her away by the arm.  
  
"Don't embarrass the boy, Gin."  
  
As they strolled arm in arm towards the Floo, Albus could hear Mum arguing - "but he's my son, I'll always have the right to embarrass him!" He stared after them until Conan twitched the curtains shut. Albus couldn't help flinching when Conan sat on the bed.  
  
"I was so worried." Conan's voice split and shook in the middle of this admission.  
  
"Don't be," said Albus curtly. "Waste of energy. I get sick a lot."  
  
"But I feel like this was my fault." Conan repetitively smoothed the bedcover; the motion irritated Albus.  
  
"I choose to do things that sometimes end in me getting ill because of them," said Albus. "But it's always my choice, not anyone else's." He paused. He could tell Conan wanted to flagellate himself further. Even without his current mixed feelings towards Conan, Albus was disinclined to indulge him. "About the concert..."  
  
"Did you enjoy yourself, at least? I mean, before all this happened."  
  
"I love Hexed," said Albus. It wasn't an answer. "But. Conan - was it a date?"  
  
"It could have been," Conan hedged.   
  
"But _was_ it? I'm asking you. Do you -" Albus swallowed against a parched throat. This was harder than he'd anticipated. "Do you like me that way?"  
  
"I - God." Conan ran a hand through his hair, staring intently at the bed frame. "What's the right answer here? What do you want me to say?"  
  
"The truth," said Albus.  
  
"You don't look like you want the truth."  
  
"No," said Albus, "I do. I just won't necessarily like it, but that's your problem, not mine."  
  
Conan's mouth went wry. "I can take it you don't feel the same way, then."  
  
"Damn right you can! Jeez." Albus slapped the pillow, nails scraping cotton. "I mean, I thought we were friends. When were you planning to tell me you were - what, flirting with me? Whatever you were doing? Before or _after_ you made your move?"  
  
"After?" suggested Conan. "So you'd be bowled over by my multiple talents."  
  
"This isn't a joke!" yelled Albus. "I trusted you and you _lied_ to me."  
  
"I didn't lie," said Conan. "I've always liked you. Now I like you more."  
  
"But now - all the times you were nice to me, or we talked - you meant something different than I did. So it's all fake."  
  
Conan was silent for a moment. Then - "I thought you'd be different. You were so understanding when the shit went down with Eoghan."  
  
"But I'm not gay," said Albus. "I told you that."  
  
"You're sixteen," said Conan. "You don't know what you are yet."  
  
"You do," said Albus. "You know you're gay; why can't I know I'm straight?"  
  
"I - it's not the same. I've been with girls and it wasn't right. You'll never know if you like boys unless you try - you'll never be entirely straight until you've done that."  
  
"That's the stupidest argument I've ever heard," declared Albus. "But even it if were true, I'd never try it with a friend. It would ruin everything. And now ... I don't know what you are to me."  
  
"Well, I hope we can be friends," said Conan. "I made a mistake too. I read some signals wrong. We - I suppose we got along so well, I thought it would be interesting to get along even better."  
  
"Can you stop thinking that about me?" asked Albus. "Please. It makes me feel weird."  
  
"I'll try," said Conan. "It's a _feeling_. It doesn't go off by turning a tap."  
  
"Fine." Albus picked at a loose thread in the pillowcase. "Maybe we should ... I mean, it would be easier if we didn't hang out a lot. For a while."  
  
Conan seemed to freeze. When he thawed, his features didn't, leaving his face hard and cold. "If that's what you want," he said, and slipped off the bed.  
  
Albus felt guilt; he felt self-loathing, and he felt relief.  
  
He felt like Scorpius.


	6. Chapter 6

_They mouth love's language. Gnash  
The thirteen teeth  
Your lean jaws grin with. Lash  
Your itch and quailing, nude greed of the flesh.  
Love's breath in you is stale, worded or sung,  
As sour as cat's breath,  
Harsh of tongue._  
(James Joyce)  
  
Winter was closing in fast, wrapping itself around Hogwarts like a white blanket. In spite of the inclement weather, it was pleasant to wander around an enclosed courtyard decorated with only the tiniest eddies of snow. Albus wore two pairs of scarves, insulated mittens and double-sided robes, plus a jacket and cloak, but his mother still stopped every two minutes to inquire anxiously if he were cold.  
  
It was only after he said, "No, Mum," for the fifth time that Mum at last mentioned his face.  
  
"Dad said we maybe shouldn't talk about it," she said. "If it makes you feel self-conscious I won't, of course - but I'm dying to know."  
  
"It's fine," said Albus. "And I'm fine. Everything's great."  
  
"I'm glad you're happy," said Mum. "That's the most important thing. I'm only sorry you couldn't be happy with yourself the way you were."  
  
"The way I was?" scoffed Albus. "I looked like a mutant. But I wasn't about to throw myself off any tall buildings, if that's what you're worried about. Most of the Healers said it'd clear up eventually - I was counting on that. But I'm not complaining that it cleared up earlier."  
  
"Neither am I, dearest." Mum squeezed his arm. "I was always proud of you for being so kind and considerate to everyone. But now I'm proud because I have a gorgeous son as well."  
  
"That's not shallow at all, Mum," said Albus. She pretended to swat him.   
  
"I don't suppose -" she hesitated "- now that you have a bit more confidence - are there any girls in the picture?"  
  
"Sure," said Albus. "Titania and Norma Abbott are two of my best friends."  
  
"I meant _romantically_ ," said Mum.  
  
"No. I don't like _anyone_ that way - which is a good thing. It would have been a lot harder to be Omelette Boy if I fancied some girl who'd never look twice at me."  
  
"Well, now the world's your oyster," said Mum. "Hmm. You know, I've never understood that phrase. Oysters are horrible little slimy creatures. It's not a very nice analogy, is it?"  
  
"The world is my pumpkin, then," said Albus. When Mum made a face, he protested: "What? I like pumpkins."  
  
"There's something else I wanted to ask you about," said Mum, after they'd made another turn about the courtyard. "That is, Dad and I have been discussing it. We've talked ourselves in circles. He suggested seeing what you - the children - think."  
  
"We're not taking another holiday to Wales, are we?" Albus asked with trepidation. James and small confined spaces like caravans were a dangerously volatile mix. Albus' left eyebrow never had never grown in right.   
  
Mum laughed. "Nothing quite that drastic, I assure you. I was thinking about going back to work."  
  
Albus waited for the clincher, but it never came. This seemed to be the entirety of his mother's big announcement.   
  
"Good for you," he said. "Have you got a job?"  
  
"You don't object?" Mum seemed surprised.  
  
"If you hadn't told me, I won't even _know_ ," said Albus. "I'm sure it's escaped your notice, but all your children spend most of the year in a castle five hundred miles away from you. Unless you've got a secret kid you've been keeping in the basement -"  
  
"No, under the stairs," muttered Mum. "Well, that puts a different complexion on things. For some reason, I thought it would upset you. Serena hasn't dared to tell Scorpius yet."  
  
"You overestimate Scorpius' interest in you," said Albus. "He's not going to care if you take seven jobs. You really don't feature that much in his life."  
  
"But I haven't told you the rest of the story," said Mum. "Serena and I are going into business together!"  
  
"Oh, wow!" said Albus. "Um. Doing what?"  
  
"Dress-design," said Mum. "Serena's been buying her robes in Milan for years. She's just sick of going all that way to get decent clothes. She saw some sketches I'd done for Zodiac Lovegood-Scamander's christening dress, and one thing lead to another. We're going to Gringotts on Monday to sign for a loan." She beamed. "I'm so excited!"  
  
"That's really cool," said Albus. "Do you think you could design me some new robes while you're at it? I'm thinking racing stripes and gold fringe -"  
  
"Shut it!" growled Mum. "Will James make fun?"  
  
"Does the sun rise in the east?" asked Albus. "And Lily won't understand it at all, but they'll be happy if you're happy."  
  
"I wasn't into clothes myself when I was Lily's age," ruminated Mum. "But that was from lack of opportunity rather than anything else. I'd buy her a hundred robes if I thought she'd wear them."  
  
"She wouldn't. She likes black. And brown. They don't show the bloodstains."  
  
Mum sighed. "Has she shown any signs of relenting on this dropping out idea? I don't know how many times your father has threatened to disown her if she doesn't."  
  
"That's ... probably not the best way to get her to change her mind," said Albus gingerly.  
  
"Oh, I know. But your father can be obstinate as a pig. That's where she gets it from."  
  
"If it's any consolation," offered Albus, "I think she can make a go of the taxidermy thing. She's really determined."  
  
"But what difference does two years make?" said Mum. "I'm afraid for her, out there in the world with no proper qualifications."  
  
Albus shrugged and shivered. Mum immediately set about conjuring some flames in a jar.   
  
"So Scorpius hasn't said anything to you about this?" asked Mum. "Serena promised faithfully she'd write and tell him this week, but she's probably chickened out."  
  
"I wouldn't know," said Albus.  
  
"He is a very close-mouthed boy. Polite, yes, but so distant. Makes me think I'm talking to an iceberg. But I thought he confided in you a bit?"  
  
"He used to."  
  
"Past tense?"  
  
"We had a fight. I told you that yesterday."  
  
"Oh." Mum absently stroked the flame-jar. "I thought you'd have made up by now."  
  
" _No_. We won't ever be making up. It was a serious fight. I hate him."  
  
Mum looked startled. "That's a very strong term."  
  
"Well, I do." Even as he insisted, an icy coil slithered around Albus' throat. He was extremely angry at Scorpius and wanted nothing further to do with him - that equalled hate, or close enough. Didn't it?  
  
"It's a shame."  
  
"Why? Because I was so good at stopping him doing all the stupid stuff he wanted to do?" snapped Albus.   
  
"No," said Mum, "because you enjoyed his company so much. You sometimes said Titania talked too much about her looks, and Rambo's brains intimidated you. And I think you find Norma somewhat of an enigma. But it was always Scorpius this, Scorpius that. And oddly, out of all of them he's the least friendly and obliging. You're like night and day: complete opposites, but still inseparable."  
  
"Not so much anymore, okay?" Heat scalded Albus' eyes.   
  
"Okay," said Mum. "These things happen." She tucked his hand closer to her arm and talked of inconsequentials for the rest of her visit.  
  
+++  
  
When Mum left Albus returned to his dormitory, a man on a mission. He dug out an old shoebox full of pictures. A couple didn't move, denoting their source from Rambo's Muggle digital camera.   
  
In every photograph, whether it was just the two of them or a huge group, showed Albus and Scorpius looking at each other. Sometimes it was outright staring, such as the one where they'd been pulling funny faces (Albus suffered a cheek cramp for hours afterward). Mostly, though, it was plain grinning glances - the sort you sent to friends to telegraph your enjoyment, and receive the same message back. The photos depicted moments in time when they'd been happy. They never showed the temper tantrum Scorpius threw an hour later; or the day after, when Albus collapsed from eating cream. It made sense that the pictures couldn't show their current fight, but it still felt strange.  
  
When Albus pushed the box back under the bed, it crashed against another. With a slap of recognition, Albus spotted the gift box from Scorpius. He gingerly took it up on to the bed with him. He was reluctant to open it, and not just because he dreaded the ravages within.  
  
He squeezed some courage from the recesses of his heart and pushed off the lid. Inside was the heartbreak of a star. Albus carefully unfastened the satin lining and lifted the whole mess out of the box.  
  
Spread out, the piece was broken in four large pieces and innumerable tiny ones. Albus' heart pumped in his ears as he separated out a pair of jade ears, a crystal tail and two paws: one emerald, one diamond. One of the ears sported a tiny flaw that, on closer inspection, appeared to be a creator's signature.   
  
It read _SM_.  
  
"Oh, god," said Albus aloud. He hastily shoved the satin bundle back into the box, the box under the bed, and proceeded to fail at forgetting all about it for the rest of the night.  
  
+++  
  
Albus heard Hugo's voice before he rounded the corner to the Charms classroom; it was almost enough to make him turn back, although he was already late.  
  
Hugo and Lily were talking. Rather, _Hugo_ was talking, leaning over Lily with great menace and superior height, while Lily clutched a dusty notebook and frowned. As Albus approached, Hugo flicked one of Lily's tangled curls. With precise enunciation, Lily said, "Do that again and I'll bite off your finger."  
  
"Right," laughed Hugo, but he put his hand in his pocket all the same. "Oh, my. Look who it is - Freakazoid Mark One."  
  
"You okay?" Albus asked Lily in an undertone.  
  
"Of course she's okay," said Hugo. "Bedraggled and unkempt, yes, but I had nothing to do with that. We were just having a nice little chat."  
  
"Involving cannibalism?"  
  
"Among other things." Hugo's eyes swept over Lily's notebook. "I only wanted to find out her hopes and dreams. It's simply _too_ tempting when people go carrying their diaries about with them."  
  
"This isn't a diary," said Lily. "It's _black_."  
  
"A black list?" Hugo sounded amused; but then, he always did. "Of people you're planning to murder with your fingernails. Or maybe your body odour. Am I top of the list?"  
  
"No," said Lily. She turned and walked off. Hugo made to stop her, but Albus stepped in front of him.  
  
"Why don't you leave her alone? She's done nothing to you."  
  
"Aside from the two crimes of being related to me and refusing to wash her hair, you mean."  
  
"I can't imagine what her hair has to do with you," said Albus. He went to move away, but Hugo's hand on his arm prevented him. In build Hugo was slender and sylph-like, and the appearance of his white-skinned hands suggested they had no more strength than a kitten's paw. The reality was somewhat different.  
  
"Where are you rushing off to?" he asked.  
  
"Class," said Albus. "I'm sure you have one to attend as well."  
  
"Yes, but it's hardly urgent," said Hugo. "Not when I have the chance to catch up with you, _dear_ cousin."  
  
"What do we have to catch up on?" said Albus. "Years of mutual enmity?"  
  
"Indeed, that's always so refreshing," said Hugo. "Tell me, how is your friend Scorpius Malfoy?"  
  
Albus stiffened. Hugo, in whose grip Albus' arm was braced, couldn't and didn't fail to notice. He smiled, showing off the airbrush-perfect teeth his mother had early obtained for him and Rose. "That's what I thought," purred Hugo. "He did seem to be getting tired of you - not that anyone could blame him."  
  
"What are you talking about?" snapped Albus.  
  
"You had a fight, didn't you?" Hugo brushed lint off Albus' robe as a couple of younger girls passed by. One of them blushed and giggled as she received a megawatt smile. "It's been building for a while, I fear. He couldn't help mentioning how you'd grown apart of late. I could tell he really meant he'd grown out of _you._ "  
  
"You're mad," said Albus. "When does Scorpius ever talk to you? And more to the point, _why_ would he talk to you?"  
  
"I suppose he never told you," said Hugo, "about all the parties, over the summer. Of course, you weren't invited. Christine Ohtori and Scorpius were naturally honoured guests - you know the Ohtoris are even richer than the Macnights? And the Malfoys are nearly as long-established as the Weasleys. The Potters, on the other hand, can trace no roots earlier than the 1930s."  
  
It didn't do to let Hugo see a chink in your armour, but at this point Albus felt like he'd entered an unexpected battlefield in his pyjamas. "What _parties_?"  
  
Hugo's eyes were moist and limpid. "I should have thought _someone_ had told you by now. Of course, the company you keep is hardly exalted." He gave a little yawn, his free hand fluttering over his mouth. "Perhaps Scorpius thought it was kinder not to let you know he'd finally found some proper friends. Friends who _have_ parties, and can live up to the standards he expects. After all, you may have Glamoured your face, but you're still a grotty little worm underneath it all. As for those unspeakable friends of yours - but I really think Scorpius is _too_ noble. He's played you along all term. I think it's time he admitted where he truly belongs - with us."  
  
Albus gaped, dry-eyed and dry-mouthed. Hugo patted his head in a mockery of comfort.   
  
"Don't worry," he said. "Scorpius was so far above you anyway; you'll be better off without him."  
  
Hugo sauntered off, looking pleased. Too late, Albus discovered an urge to throw his heavy Charms book at Hugo's perfectly-groomed, strawberry blonde head.  
  
+++  
  
Norma required little convincing to swap desks with Albus in Potions. The look on Rambo's face when Albus dropped his books there on the first day suggested Norma hadn't felt it necessary to bring Rambo into the negotiations. Still, Rambo didn't argue: simply said, "Hi - watch out for that stool, one of the legs is too short."  
  
Albus was sorely tempted to glance around and observe the person he used to be friends with's reaction to events, but he resisted. He already had a cramp in his neck from not looking at whatever seat in the classroom the person Albus used to be friends with occupied.   
  
A diversion came in the form of a scuffle outside the entrance to the Potions lab. Professor Redding released an impatient huff and adjusted a peacock-blue bra strap before striding over. Albus decided he could get used to sitting at the front of the room.  
  
Professor Redding swept open the door. Scorpius and Roe fell across the stoop. From the way Scorpius crash-landed atop Roe, it looked very much like Scorpius had recently been attempting to crush Roe's throat against the wood. Albus jumped to his feet, but before he could feel embarrassed for it several people rushed past him. Barrett was ahead of the posse. He grabbed Scorpius' collar and hauled him backwards. Scorpius choked and clawed at the fabric constricting his windpipe.  
  
Professor Redding was too much occupied with Roe, bleeding as he was from several orifices, to notice that Barrett had taken up where Roe left off. As usual, Scorpius was giving as good as he got, but with Barrett's fist holding Scorpius' robes like a noose he was steadily losing ground.   
  
"What's going on?" Rambo asked Albus, as the group in front of the teacher's desk descended into a melee.   
  
It appeared to be Ravenclaws and Gryffindors against Slytherins. Rambo and Albus, as the sole representatives of House Hufflepuff, were within seconds the only spectators. Professor Redding's bouffant hairdo disappeared in the midst of the scrum. Even Norma was there, kicking the ankles of a Ravenclaw boy and yelling incomprehensible slurs. But all Albus could see were Barrett’s blows landing with soft crunches as Scorpius lost the power to resist.  
  
Albus' feet moved of their own accord. He ducked under a flailing arm and avoided a stray punch.   
  
"What are you doing?" yelled Rambo. Albus ignored him.   
  
Barrett's back was to him, his elbow pumping as he systematically hit Scorpius in the stomach. Scorpius' breath came in wet gasps; he was almost dangling from his robes, which Barrett clenched so tightly his knuckles popped. Albus did the only thing he could think of: he curled both hands around Barrett's wrist and bit it.   
  
He got half a mouthful of cloth as Barrett howled and dropped Scorpius. Scorpius sunk against the desk. One side of his face was as bruised the deep blue of his eyes and he was cradling his right arm.   
  
Too late, Albus realised the other consequence of distracting Barrett. With a snarl, Barrett scraped the blood off his arm and advanced. Albus winced preemptively. And froze.  
  
"That is quite enough!" shrieked Professor Redding. Her wand crackled fire. Albus couldn't move his eyes, but his line of vision directly encompassed Professor Redding's heaving bosom. Albus wasn't complaining. "This class is a disgrace! You will all stay here till six pm and clean cauldrons with a toothbrush." She waved her wand again. Albus blinked rapidly. Even after a short period open, his eyes were scratchily dry. Before he could speak, Professor Redding encanted a third spell. Its effects were instantly appreciated, as Albus brushed past Barrett and felt a sickening wave of vertigo as their arms bumped. His tongue, too, felt cold and lifeless.  
  
"You should all be heartily ashamed of yourselves," Professor Redding told them. With a hand visibly shaking, she pushed back her blonde fringe. "I've never seen such a shameful display. I don't care what started it - there is no occasion to act like wild animals. I expect every cauldron in this room to be sparkling before anyone gets to put a toe out the door. Do I make myself clear?"  
  
Most of the class nodded. Albus looked over at Scorpius, who wasn't nodding. He was staring at Albus, eyes narrowed. Albus flinched and grabbed for a toothbrush. Professor Redding was conjuring them at the speed of light and practically flinging them at individual members of the class.  
  
Albus was glad of the mute spell. Rambo kept sending him questioning looks, and there was a burning on the back of his neck that told Albus someone was staring at him. He didn't want to acknowledge that the person he used to be friends with was still someone to whose aid he leapt without question. It made him inconsistent. Not to mention that the person he used to be friends with might take it as a positive sign, when as far as Albus was concerned, there was _nothing_ positive left in the ever-widening space between them.  
  
About an hour after the fight broke out, just when Albus was starting to feel dizzy, a messenger appeared at the door. She tiptoed across the room as if the silence was compulsory and whispered in Professor Redding's ear. Her words drew Professor Redding's eyes into slits.  
  
"Scorpius Malfoy!" she barked. Albus intended not to look, but his eyes didn't listen. Scorpius was out of his chair before she finished the second S. "The Headmaster will see you now."  
  
Now that he'd broken his own rule, Albus made the most of it. He drank in the expression on Scorpius' face, which was one he'd never seen before and never wished to again. It made Albus' insides lurch in sickened sympathy.   
  
Rambo grunted in annoyance. He grabbed some parchment and scrawled: "WHAT?"  
  
Albus shrugged and pushed at the parchment - too hard; it fluttered off the table and on to the floor.  
  
"No note-passing!" snapped Professor Redding. "Mr Dursley and Mr Potter, you can both stay an extra hour for that infraction. If anyone else cares to join them, you know the way."  
  
An extra hour meant Albus would miss a meal. He didn't think now was the time to mention it - even if he could. He bent over his cauldron and scrubbed until his mind was drained empty.  
  
+++  
  
By evening, reports of the fight had circled the school twice. Albus didn't care to hear more of it than he already knew; besides which, he was faint with hunger. He went straight to the source, tickled the pear and very nearly collapsed by the kitchen fire. The elves were accustomed to bringing trays to his dormitory, but they didn't shush him out. Albus was duly grateful, and ate slowly while dribbles of strength returned to his limbs.  
  
The common room was rowdy, too much so for Albus' aching head. He crept along the edges until he could climb the stairs in peace. Even such little effort used up his entire store from the hearty dinner he'd consumed. He flopped face-down on his bed, feeling an unusual crackle as he did so. He fell asleep before he could investigate.   
  
He didn't discover the letter until he woke early the next morning. The darkness had only changed in shade, not consistency: the wind battering the plate glass windows chased away any wintry slivers of sunlight. Six am was an inhospitable time to be conscious, but Albus knew he wouldn't get back to sleep. He got up and washed, feeling groggy. The slip of parchment on the bed was the first thing he saw when he returned to dress.   
  
Albus knew there was only one person in the school who had no other way to talk to him. He hated the fact that his first emotion was pure joy at the thought of Scorpius writing to him. He immediately didn't want to open it, in case Scorpius said something scathing, or - worse - it wasn't from him at all.  
  
 _Meet me in the trophy room at eight. Be there. James._  
  
Albus swallowed a knot of disappointment. What had James to do with anything? Hang James. Albus pulled on a sock with such force his big toe ripped through the frayed fabric.  
  
The next two hours kindled Albus' curiosity. It was true that he and James didn't mingle much where anyone could see them, or even where no one could. Yet this wouldn't prevent James from talking to Albus at any juncture if that were his desire. The whole thing stank of secrecy.   
  
Albus had no real intention of failing to answer James' summons. But as he trundled along the dank hallways to the trophy room, he had a feeling that whatever intelligence James had to share, it would not be pleasant.   
  
To his surprise, Lily was sitting on a dusty desk in the trophy room. She bit into an apple as Albus opened the door, seeming quite at her ease.  
  
"Did James send you a note, too?" asked Albus.  
  
"Yes," said Lily.  
  
"Pretty early, for James." Lily always rose early and Albus was no laggard, but to James 'morning' meant 'between twelve and three'.   
  
Lily shrugged. They sat in silence waiting for James, who was predictably late. He whirled into the room at twenty past eight, extremely red in the face.  
  
"This had better be good," said Lily. "This is my morning for finding animal corpses."  
  
"Does someone else take them if you don't get there first?" asked Albus, intrigued despite himself.  
  
"No," said Lily. "They get eaten."  
  
"Oh, right," said Albus, "of course."  
  
James hopped from foot to foot. "Moving on," he boomed. The latches on the cabinets rattled. "I take it you've both heard by now. I wanted to get us all together so we could -"  
  
"Wait, heard what?" asked Albus.  
  
"I probably don't know what you're talking about either," said Lily.   
  
"The biggest scandal in Hogwarts' history, and my brother and sister haven't a clue," said James. "What a surprise."  
  
"Has another Dark Lord risen or something?" asked Lily.  
  
"I said scandal, not ... political coup," said James. "Now -"  
  
"You're calling Voldemort's reign of terror a political coup?" said Albus incredulously. "Did you even take History of Magic?"  
  
"Guys, seriously," said James. "I have to be at breakfast in half an hour and people will be turning to me for answers."  
  
"That'll be a first," muttered Albus.  
  
"Why, is Witch Weekly doing a feature on hair care?" Lily inquired.  
  
"I can't believe this," said James. "I mean, Albus, you were _there_. How can you not have heard about Scorpius and Hugo?"  
  
+++  
  
Rambo, of all people, convened the emergency meeting in the Clubhouse. Hufflepuff's last class of the day was study hall, which was a simple matter to skip. The Slytherins had Charms, but Norma pleaded a sore throat and arrived at the Clubhouse only five minutes later than the rest.  
  
They sat around in uncomfortable silence until Rambo thumped a cushion and said, "Damn it - I don't think it's true."  
  
"Me neither," Titania piped up. "Scorpius isn't that much of a dickhead."  
  
"Would Hugo Weasley make up something like this, though?" asked Norma. "I'm not saying Scorpius did it, but where did Hugo even get the idea to accuse him? Albus?"  
  
Albus stared at the rush matting. "When did you all find out?" he asked.  
  
"Yesterday," said Rambo and Titania.  
  
"Last week," said Norma. "There have been rumours floating around - but you don't understand what it's like in Slytherin. You pick your side and you stay on it. No matter what. I'm on Scorpius' side, so that means I think all rumours are lies until proven otherwise. It's not something you go talking about to other Houses."  
  
"James had to tell me," said Albus dully. "He didn't want me to go fighting Hugo on Scorpius' behalf."  
  
"I think quite enough people have been fighting Scorpius on Hugo's behalf," said Norma. "Gryffindors are crazy in the head. There's loyalty and then there's madness. I mean, what is Roe Negworthy to Hugo Weasley? Nothing. They're not even friends. But Hugo just has to suggest that Scorpius ... you know, and suddenly _every single_ Gryffindor is up in arms against him. Ravenclaws, too, because of Roe's sabre-rattling."  
  
"But if it _were_ true," said Albus, "wouldn't that be a good enough reason?"  
  
The silence rippled outwards from Albus' hammock, closing Norma's mouth and opening wide Titania's eyes. Only Rambo continued to look steadily at Albus.  
  
"I don't know Hugo," said Rambo. "Can we trust his word? Over Scorpius', at that?"  
  
"He seems nice enough," said Norma. "Aside from the inevitable crazy Gryffindor element. And being related to Rose."  
  
"He told me my hair was nice," offered Titania.  
  
The words twisted up inside of Albus. He didn't so much speak as spit. "Do you remember the time - do you remember when Rose threw Mouse in the river?"  
  
"Yeah," said Titania. "Bitch."   
  
"Rose hates me," said Albus. "She likes James, though, and she pities Lily. Which is incredibly condescending, of course. But Hugo - Hugo hates everyone. Everyone in the world. He only not-hates Rose some of the time. He did things like scribble over my favourite book or rip up a painting I made, just because he knew it'd hurt. But you could never do it back because Hugo doesn't have a favourite book. He doesn't love anything, except ruining what other people have." He looked down at the rope knot at which he'd been picking. His fingers burned. "But he can con everyone so well."  
  
"So we believe Scorpius," said Rambo.  
  
"Scorpius isn't stupid!" snapped Albus. "He should know better than to have anything to do with Hugo or James or, or _anyone_ in my family. Including me," he added for his ears only. "Hugo's too canny to start something like this unless he knew he had information he could use. They did something - they. I'm pretty sure I caught them together at Victoire's engagement party, only I didn't know it was Hugo. I just don't understand what was in it for Hugo."  
  
"Sex," said a new voice. Albus nearly fell out of the hammock. Scorpius gently closed the door behind him. "What else?"  
  
"You didn't ... force him, then?" asked Titania timidly.  
  
"No! If anything, he forced _me_." Scorpius threw a quick glance at Albus, who dropped his eyes. "I met him over the summer. Christine was always getting us invited to these parties at the Nestors' and the Macnights'. They were a drag, but ... I didn't recognise him at first. He was always there, with Rose and James. But I never put two and two together until after - well. We got really drunk and ... I think you can guess what happened. He said he'd tell Christine if we didn't keep doing it, and it was actually kind of ... for a while. But I didn't want to ... and he did. So he went off and basically said I took advantage of him, which is ridiculous, because -"  
  
He broke off, panting. Albus couldn't vouch for the others, because he was staring at his knees, but he knew he was blushing.  
  
"I don't care if you think I'm lying," said Scorpius. His voice was so cracked and desperate he betrayed his own lie. "But it's the truth. I'm not even gay, not properly. That is, at the beginning - but he kept pushing me, even when I didn't like it anymore. And..."  
  
"Oh, _Scorpius_." Norma scrambled up from the floor and put her arms around Scorpius. Albus flicked his head up to see that Scorpius was crying, silent jots of tears running down his otherwise impassive face. He didn't return Norma's hug, but the fists he'd clenched at his sides were shaking.  
  
Rambo stood up and put an awkward hand around Scorpius' shoulders. "We didn't believe him," he said.  
  
"Have some cheese crackers," said Titania, which was her primary source of solace in troubled times.  
  
Albus' voice sounded shrill to his own ears when he asked, "How long were you in love with him?" Norma winced.  
  
"Don't be silly," said Titania. "Scorpius was blackmailed, he wasn't -"  
  
" _How long_?"  
  
The tears polished Scorpius' eyes: they shone darkly when he turned them on Albus. "Almost three months," he said.  
  
"You fucking fool." Rambo's arm dropped from Scorpius' shoulders as Albus approached; Norma stepped away a few seconds later. "You _fool_!" Albus shoved as hard as he could. It only made Scorpius stumble a little. His own lack of power infuriated Albus even more.  
  
"I was curious - so hex me," shouted Scorpius. "And he offered. What would you have done better?"  
  
"You had a girlfriend! You pissed on Conan when he came out - at least he was _honest_ about it!"  
  
"Oh, Conan, Christine - I don't care about _them_. I care about _me_."  
  
"No need to tell us you're selfish, we know already," snarled Albus. He was dimly aware of his hands striking out at Scorpius, of Scorpius responding in kind. Scorpius wasn't pulling his punches: every one stung, but at a remove. Albus thought he heard Titania crying. "If you cared a bit more for other people, you wouldn't have got into this mess in the first place."  
  
"I was _protecting_ you," said Scorpius. "I needed - I had to find out. I had to _know_. Hugo seemed a good option for experimenting. It's not like you ever talk to anyone in your family, is it?"  
  
"For a good reason!" yelled Albus. "You see what happens when you get involved with them? You get burned alive!"  
  
His foot went through Scorpius' robes at the same time as Scorpius kicked his knee. They went down together in an almighty jarring tangle of arms, legs and cloth. For a minute all Albus could see was a tent of blue linen, all he could feel was Scorpius' hair in his mouth.  
  
He spat it out and dragged Scorpius towards him by the chin, fingernails clawing for purchase. Albus' mind was a fury of emotion, colour and heat. His lips found Scorpius' ear. Close enough to whisper, "Why didn't you choose _me_?" Close enough to kiss.  
  
Faintness, weakness notwithstanding, Albus was the first to find his feet. He shoved past Rambo, past Titania's tearful face. He burst out through the door in a final blare of energy, which left him empty and soaked with sweat.  
  
"Albus?"  
  
Albus looked up into the face of his cousin.


	7. Chapter 7

_(i who have died am alive again today,  
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth  
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay  
great happening illimitably earth)_  
e.e. cummings  
  
Albus paused on the threshold, nervously tugging on his cuffs. They were heavily invested with lace - something he would not personally have chosen, but of which he'd grown rather fond all the same. It went well with the theme of the evening, which was apparently 'inappropriate opulence.' Considering that the event was Uncle Ron's brainchild, said theme was perhaps not so surprising.  
  
The main doorway stood at the edge of a slight curve, which gave way to a shimmering staircase. The steps and balustrades were mother of pearl flecked with gold; the carpet runner was sapphire velvet. The Starview Ballroom was grandiose, magnificent and not a little tacky. At this moment, it was also swarming with people. Albus scanned the crowds with a flickering gaze, hopping from face to face in search of the one he sought.  
  
There was James with Marie-Jeanette, heads a little too close together. Dad had been horrified when he found out, but Mum was more philosophical. "We're related to most of the wizarding families in England already," she said. "No one's going to be very shocked." No one was - at least, not in the pureblood side of society. The Muggleborns struggled more with it; but on the whole, their blood-ties were only one of many incongruities in James and Marie-Jeanette's relationship.  
  
There was Uncle Ron, false joviality straining his features. Aunt Hermione melted beside him in an oyster satin gown, making no attempt to disguise her feelings. She'd rustled up a lace fan and flapped it harshly at intervals. It did little to cool the flames in her cheeks.  
  
There were Mum and Dad, heads close together in some private joke. Mum wore one of her own creations, which made daring use of peacock feathers interspersed with scraps of silk. Dad hadn't taken his eyes off her all night. She'd used the dress as an excuse to take photos of herself with everyone, claiming that Serena wanted to share their success at a remove. Albus knew that she really wanted to make a record of the event without being too obvious about it. It was clear that Aunt Hermione was not in the least interested in making this one for the family scrapbooks. She'd let Uncle Ron throw the party to save face, but that was all it was: public relations.  
  
At last, Albus' eyes lit on the one person of all he wanted to see. Smiling, he hurried forward.  
  
+++  
  
 _rewind_  
  
Albus doubtfully eyed the array of bottles. They were arranged in no particular manner he could see: not by colour, bottle shape and size, or system affected. It was fortunate that he'd thought to research the consistency of the potion beforehand, and not just its properties and interactions. The book described a 'creamy texture, the colour of old pearl'. However, many of the glass bottles housing the potions were tinted green and blue and brown, which hindered the deciphering of their contents somewhat.   
  
" _Misoprostine rapidis_ ," he murmured to himself. It was the technical name - not as widely known as the common one; not by a long shot. But Albus doubted that Healer Bilharzia labelled her potions and pills by their manufacturing titles.  
  
He was on a tight schedule. Healer Bilharzia had never before seemed so reluctant to quit her quarters and consult on Albus' progress with the other Healers. Usually, Albus was left kicking his heels in a draughty nightgown while she visited the respiratory specialist or the on-call dermatologist or the proxy surgeon. The one day he needed her to be gone, she chose to hang over him with the doubtful expression of a mama bird towards a hydrophobic duckling.  
  
"M, M, M," chanted Albus. He scanned the titles more rapidly now, alert to every scratch and click that could signal Healer Bilharzia's return.   
  
At long last, he spotted a likely candidate, nestled in a dark corner far behind a family of opium derivatives. It was a long, thin bottle with a specially designed neck to prevent evaporation, and thick cork. He surprised himself a little by recalling the information pat from one of his essays; he supposed the extra study was paying off at long last. The liquid inside was distressingly chunky and leaned more towards old cheese than precious jewels, but it was the only one there. He carefully set it on the floor and pointed his wand at it.   
  
Scorpius had spent many hours insisting that Albus practise this spell, and for good reason. If he got it wrong, the shrinking magic would adversely affect the potion's properties. Albus was grateful for the repetition now in a way he certainly hadn't been at the time. Scorpius was too impatient, too good at magic himself to teach it well. At least five separate incidents had nearly instigated another fistfight. Oddly enough, three of the times a brawl was prevented was due to Scorpius backing down. Things had certainly changed.  
  
" _Minimus encontenus recorsi_ ," said Albus gently.   
  
Magic purled through the air. With extreme slowness, the bottle shivered and collapsed in on itself. So fascinated was Albus at watching its progress that he nearly forgot when to cancel the spell. He hurriedly whipped out a ' _Finite incantem_ ' - just in time. The main door groaned as Healer Bilharzia pushed her shoulder against the old, reluctant wood. Using a speed he didn't know he possessed, Albus shoved the bottle into his bag in passing and dived on to the bed.   
  
Healer Bilharzia, engrossed in a long curl of parchment, didn't notice his flushed cheeks or the awkwardly casual position of his limbs. In fact, Albus had grown bored again by the time she looked up, and quite accustomed to his new life of petty crime.  
  
"Ah-h," she said, sucking in her cheeks. Albus knew that expression of old: it foretold no good for anyone.   
  
"What's the damage?" said Albus. He tried for light-heartedness, but his own organ sank at the look in her eyes.  
  
"Extensive, I am afraid," said Healer Bilharzia. "I was concerned, yah, when you tell me of the shortness of breath and the coughing. The pink sputum, I do not like this. However, I am hopeful. I am also not a cardiac Healer. I consult with Healer Smith." She paused. "Healer Smith is a very abrupt gentleman. I am sure he gives patients myocardial infarcts with the way he barks orders. Not good for business, I am being sure. Regardless. Healer Smith knows the heart and he knows yours is not as it should be."  
  
"But you can give me another potion to fix it, right?" said Albus. "I mean, it's no different from the time I had kidney failure. I took that horrible orange stuff..." He trailed off as Healer Bilharzia shook her head.  
  
"I'm afraid this is not so," she said. "It became as I feared. The side effect profile of the potion I invent, it contains, how do I say ... elements for tightening of the muscle fibres. It is due to the necessity for closing pores in the skin by contracting connective tissue. You understand?"  
  
"Not really," said Albus. "Does it mean I have to stop taking it?"  
  
"I think it must be best," she said. "You understand, the tightening of your skin, it is perfect! I'm sure you see this." Albus couldn't bring himself to agree with words; he nodded instead. "However, the same type of cell, he is in your heart. Your heart is like a squeezing fist. It becomes smaller and tighter and is not working as it should. Eventually, it may stop working altogether. It was not as I hoped would occur, but I knew it might."  
  
"Yes," said Albus. He'd known it too. He'd had to read a five-page scroll on all the potential side effects of the potion, none of which he wanted to happen. In truth, he'd skimmed most of it. The gastrointestinal side effects - diarrhoea and vomiting - and the alopecia preyed more on his mind. When they didn't come to pass, he'd taken it as a leave to rejoice. He'd never imagined it was simply a detour to something worse.  
  
"I give you now some diuretics and beta-blockers," said Healer Bilharzia. "You will take these till the symptoms end. I am thinking they will disappear when you stop the potion, but it is better safe than sorry."  
  
"Yeah," said Albus dully, "it always is."  
  
+++  
  
Scorpius accosted Albus as soon as he returned from St Mungo's. Albus had hoped for some breathing space, some time to get his head around the fact that in a week or two - maybe less - he'd be back to being the hideous malformed creature of yore. A minority vote from his reason suggested that his acne hadn't been that bad, and that if he survived it before he could again; but it was drowned out by the tumultuous roar of the enraged mob in his hindbrain.  
  
He knew Scorpius planned to set things up in the Clubhouse, which was why he headed towards the Hufflepuff entrance instead. However, Scorpius must have lain in wait for him; he pounced before Albus had even passed the first tapestry on the way to the kitchens.  
  
" _There_ you are!" he exclaimed, as if Albus was in the habit of hiding under tables when Scorpius approached. He wasn't, but he sorely felt like it at that moment. "You're an hour later than I expected. Good thing I set the cauldron to low boil, or the potion'd be tar by now. What kept you?"  
  
"Had to go the pharmacy," said Albus. "Extra medications."  
  
He obediently turned his feet in the direction of the Clubhouse and added, in hopes of distracting Scorpius, "I got the base potion, anyway. You wouldn't believe the trouble I had. There was just the one bottle and it was tucked well behind all the others in the longest shelf in the world. I just hope it's not gone off - it looks a bit funny."  
  
"If it is, I'll go to Knockturn Alley," said Scorpius. "That was never an issue." His longer legs easily kept pace with Albus' hurried strides, giving him license to peer into Albus' face. Albus pretended a fascination with the utilitarian and identical paving stones under his feet. "What extra medications did you need?"  
  
"Oh, you know," said Albus, "stuff."  
  
"Really," said Scorpius. "And where does 'stuff' work, the completely vague system?"  
  
"Look, what's it to you?" snapped Albus. "You don't have to take the bloody things."  
  
Silence spooled out between them. Albus mounted the stairs that would carry them to the Clubhouse. He felt an itch of righteousness that said Scorpius deserved to be silenced. Of course, Scorpius rarely did what he was supposed to do. It was one of his more notable features.  
  
"It's got to do with the acne potion, hasn't it?" Scorpius' voice almost boomed. Albus winced. "It's making you sicker. I can tell. I knew that crazy woman's inventions would do more harm than good."  
  
"It must be nice, to be right all the time," said Albus. "You'll be pleased to know I had to stop taking Healer Bilharzia's cure because if I didn't, I'd die of heart failure. So now I can go back to being the hideous friend who's not good enough for you, but who makes you look just _fantastic_ by comparison."  
  
He didn't turn around as he said this, bile clogging every syllable. Through the rushing in his ears he didn't hear Scorpius' feet slap on the cobbles, either. But he _did_ feel it when Scorpius ungently grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him around.  
  
"How many times?" he hissed, hot breath blasting Albus' face. It smelled of apple drops, a sweet Christine had turned him on to. "How many times do I have to apologise for something I _didn't even say_?"  
  
Albus shrugged sulkily, turning his head away from Scorpius' as much as he was able. It wasn't terribly rational to blame Scorpius for Hugo's wretched suggestions, but there was a grain of truth in them that was hard to deny. That was always Hugo's forte.   
  
"I am not ashamed of you!" Scorpius shook Albus as he said the words. "I'm not, I'm not, I'm not."  
  
"Although you're clearly _five_ ," said Albus. "You going to throw a tantrum next?"  
  
"If that's what it takes," said Scorpius. "I don't know what I have to do to prove to you that whatever else happened, you were always my best friend. You always will be, too, unless you decide otherwise. _You_ , remember. Not me. Because I will never make that decision, ever."  
  
"Are you going to say you're unhappy that I have to stop taking the potion? Because -"  
  
"I'm not going to say that." Scorpius gave Albus a final shake for good measure, but didn't remove his hands. Their grip was hard, and Albus could feel heat radiating off them. Of course, Scorpius was red and flushed with ire, which tended to raise the temperature everywhere in his local vicinity. "I _am_ happy. No - happy's the wrong word - relieved. I was so worried about what it was doing to you, I can't even say."  
  
"More worried than me, then," said Albus. "I've got coughs and things from medicine before and you never kicked up such a fuss."  
  
"It was different this time," said Scorpius stubbornly. "You were too blind to see it. You wanted it to work so badly -"  
  
"Of course I did!" roared Albus. Scorpius' face bloomed in shock, but he didn't step back. "Wouldn't _you_? If you looked as ugly as me?"  
  
"But you _weren't_ ," said Scorpius. He looked genuinely puzzled, an expression Albus returned with gusto. They stared at each other in confusion.  
  
Scorpius' eyes were open wide, white petals around a deep blue core. They radiated painful earnestness as Albus gazed into them. Insidious warmth pooled in the pit of his stomach.   
  
He tried to remember what they'd been talking about. Scorpius saying something daft, which wasn't like him. Albus couldn't concentrate on the meaning of that, though, when he could count the honey-coloured freckles on Scorpius' nose and see the hairs that joined his eyebrows in the middle. His lips were cracked at one corner, open slightly, wet on the inside.   
  
_Oh no_ , gasped the minority vote, but whether from shock or horror he couldn't tell. He moved - closer or farther away - he never found out which, because the bottle clinked in his pocket and Scorpius jerked back, batting his eyelids frantically.  
  
"Something stuck," he mumbled, prodding about his eye socket. Albus closed his hand around the slick, reassuring coldness of the glass.  
  
"C'mon," he said, "or you'll have the place burned down by the time we've finished."  
  
+++  
  
 _fast-forward_  
  
James grabbed Albus' arm as he brushed past, keen to reach his now-clarified destination.  
  
"What?" snapped Albus. He'd never quite mastered the art of rendering politeness to his brother. On the other hand, James was too long in the tooth to notice, or to make the attempt himself.  
  
"You seen Lily lately?" he said through a mouthful of vol-au-vent. Albus curled his lips as he was treated to a front-row view of James' skill at mastication.   
  
"No," he remembered to reply from within his trance of disgust. "Why, is Mum looking for her?"  
  
James shook his head. "No, Dad. Something about an apology?"  
  
"You're kidding. _Dad_ said that?"  
  
"Now, he was mumbling," warned James, "so he could have been referring to Lily apologising to _him_."  
  
"That'll never happen," said Albus, with rock-hard certainty.  
  
"I know that. You know that. Mum knows that. Strangers in the _street_ know that. Does Dad know that?" James gave what passed for a philosophical shrug in someone who didn't know the meaning of the word 'philosophy.' "I dunno. Like, probably not?"  
  
"Maybe he was inspired." Albus' gaze travelled over Aunt Hermione's puce face, Uncle Ron's matchstick gaiety, the way neither of them so much as looked at their children. "By all this family solidarity, and everything."  
  
"Maybe he was," agreed James. But he wasn't looking at his cousins; his eyes were fixed on the novel sight of Dad and his only daughter engaged in what appeared to be a civil conversation.  
  
"I'd better get over there and prevent the bloodshed," said Albus. "Or we'll have to pay a fine for carpet-cleaning."  
  
At that moment, Marie-Jeanette floated over, her hands full of canapés. "There weren't any chicken goujons left," she said. "There were _some_ vegetarian kebabs, but I did not think you would appreciate being offered such unmanly fare."  
  
"Thanks, chickie." James planted a smacking kiss on Marie-Jeanette's cheek. Albus - although he'd resigned himself to the fact that the Weasley-Delacours had terrible taste in men - couldn't help but telegraph a question to his cousin with his eyebrows.   
  
James put a canapé into his mouth and swallowed it whole, lips stretching obscenely in the process. He snaked a hand around Marie-Jeanette's shoulders and rubbed his chin in her blonde confection of a hairdo, briefly, before retreating to inhale another snack. Marie-Jeanette's eyes softened at the edges as she watched him. Albus rolled his own and turned away, but not before seeing his brother take Marie-Jeanette's hand in his greasy one and cling on tight.  
  
Albus took a detour towards the buffet, where Dad and Lily were holding on to wine glasses and their composure with equal difficulty. Dad wasn't much of a drinker and Lily wasn't meant to, which accounted for the first; and they'd been staging a cold war ever since Lily moved out of the house two months before, which did for the second. So far, their shouts hadn't shattered any mirrors, which was a turn-up for the books. Albus wasn't taking any chances, though. He wouldn't put it past either of them to have poisoned the wine.  
  
"So, you're ... okay. Then?" Dad stuttered as Albus hove into hearing range.  
  
"Yes." Lily nodded slowly, consideringly. "I am. The work's harder than I expected. But it's nothing like school. Much better."  
  
"That's..." The physical pain the word caused Dad was evident in his straining neck muscles. "Good." Clearly amazed at his own lack of implosion - Albus was no less startled - Dad tried again. "Good."   
  
"Hi." Albus looked between his father and sister. "What's going on?"  
  
"I was just telling Dad about my job," said Lily.  
  
"It's good," said Dad, proudly - of himself or Lily, it was hard to tell. Either way, it was better than the cursing of Lily's progeny to the seventeenth generation. Dad had a bit of a dramatic streak; it figured that the child it came out in most strongly was the one who loved to provoke it most. "Ah, there's your mother. I think I'll go tell her, too."  
  
"Does he think she doesn't know?" remarked Albus, as they both watched Dad's eyes linger in the V of Mum's cleavage. "I mean, really."  
  
"She doesn't know he knows," said Lily. Her bug-eye glasses magnified her brown irises to deep woody pools.   
  
"Can I expect a day out soon?" said Albus. "Now that you're a wage-earning contributor to society and all. I think that makes you responsible for my ice-cream quota."  
  
"Albus," said Lily, "you can't eat ice-cream."  
  
"I could watch you eating it," said Albus. "Live vicariously, that's my motto."  
  
"I don't like cold food," said Lily, but there was a smile hidden in the monotone.   
  
"You'll write to me, when I go back?" asked Albus, seized with a sudden anxiety. He'd hardly seen his sister the five years she'd attended Hogwarts, but he'd felt her presence in the background - a buffer against the rest of the world.   
  
"Sure," said Lily.   
  
"Morse is treating you right, isn't he? Wages, food, that sort of thing. It's my duty to beat him up if he's not. Or get James to do it."  
  
"He's perfect," said Lily. "I'm going to marry him."  
  
"Really?" Albus was a little perturbed. "When?"  
  
"Oh, I haven't told him yet," said Lily serenely. "I'll wait till I'm of age, first."  
  
"Right," said Albus. "Of course." He toyed with the idea of explaining marriage proposals - 'propose' being the key word - to her, but rejected it. Lily wasn't stupid. It would be a better idea to start picking his outfit for the wedding.  
  
"There's Scorpius." Lily pointed. Her top lip quirked slightly. The tiny gesture made Albus blush.  
  
"I guess I'll see you later then," he said.  
  
"Later," echoed Lily, with a sardonic tint.   
  
Albus barely heard her. He smiled widely at Scorpius. Scorpius held his smooth, disdainful expression almost immaculately, except for the one second where it dropped and the warmth lapped around Albus like a sunhot wave.   
  
"You abandoned me," said Scorpius urgently. "You promised you wouldn't leave me at the mercy of these people!"  
  
"I'm sure you can handle them." Albus let Scorpius' complaints wash through his ears while he ran his hand down Scorpius' arm, slowly, till he found Scorpius' fingers under a flurry of lace. The touch bolted up Scorpius' flow of words. When Albus looked back up into Scorpius' face, his shuttered gaze was focused on Albus' mouth. Albus smiled, and brushed his fingertips along Scorpius' jaw, turning it -  
  
"Attention!" bellowed Uncle Ron, forty-seven sheets to the wind. Albus dropped his hand. "Attention, everyone! If you could all pipe down - that means you, too, Percy - we'd like to begin."  
  
+++  
  
 _rewind_  
  
At first, Albus didn't recognise her.  
  
"Albus?" said Rose again, a quaver in her voice. It broke his name into two staccato syllables.  
  
"You look awful," said Albus, and a second later winced at his own tactlessness.  
  
Rose shrugged listlessly. The comment wasn't kind, but it was accurate. Rose's usually shiny copper curls were lank, each separate wave weighed down with grease that nearly dripped. So dry were her lips, they were practically white; and at first, Albus thought she'd put eyeshadow on upside down, because deep violet shadows swept under each eye.   
  
"I really need to talk to you," she said. The words rasped. Later, Albus would discover this was because she'd cried all night, most nights for a month. "Is there somewhere we can go?"  
  
The Clubhouse was not an option, milling as it was with his confused and or beaten-up friends. Albus recalled the room his brother had summoned him to not so very long ago. "Yeah," he said. "Follow me."  
  
They walked in silence, Albus because he couldn't think what to say, Rose because she said nothing. Rose walked hunched over, arms locked across her chest, as if toiling under some unbearable weight. Albus was very glad to see the door to the trophy room, if only because the change of scenery almost guaranteed articulation on Rose's part.  
  
Albus hopped on to a desk and rested his wrists on his knees. He plastered on a neutral expression, which would suffice if this turned out to be a huge practical joke. Rose half-collapsed into a chair.  
  
"So -" began Albus.  
  
"I'm pregnant," blurted Rose, and burst into tears.  
  
"Well," said Albus. He digested the news between blinks, which seemed unusually far apart. "That was. Unexpected."  
  
"You have to help me," sobbed Rose. "I don't know who else - Mum would kill - Hugo - oh _God_." Her voice scaled upwards, shaking the dusty medals in their cases.   
  
"Okay," said Albus cautiously. "I don't know how good I'd be as a babysitter, but I'll do my best -"  
  
"Don't be _stupid_ ," snarled Rose, with something of her old verve. "I have to get rid of it."  
  
"It?" repeated Albus. "Get rid of the baby?"  
  
"It's not a baby." Low and vicious. "It's a - a thing. It shouldn't have happened. I don't _want_ it."  
  
"Why didn't you use a Contraceptus Charm?" asked Albus. "Or is that the question I shouldn't ask?"  
  
Rose twisted away from him. It took Albus a minute to realise this was from shame. "Macnight doesn't like them," she said, so softly Albus had to lean forward to hear. "He - it makes him go - I thought. I thought the Potion would be enough. All my friends ... but sometimes I forget. To make it, or I run out, and it tastes like old feet. I didn't -"  
  
Unthinking, Albus slipped off the desk and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Rose flinched and seemed a whole world away. Then she relaxed into the touch. That was when Albus knew: regardless of what happened, it would be all right.  
  
"Why me?" he asked.  
  
"Who else?" said Rose simply. "Mum and Dad aren't to be thought of. Your parents are all right, but they'd tell Dad. Your father couldn't not. Hugo - Christ, I hate to think - and could you imagine James handling this? Or Lily?"  
  
"What about Marie-Jeanette?" suggested Albus. "She's a girl. Too, I mean."  
  
Rose's lip curled. "That goody two-shoes? Besides, she's totally in James' pocket. I love James, saints preserve us. But the boy can't keep a secret to save anyone's life, let alone mine. And if Marie-Jeanette told..."  
  
Albus didn't think Marie-Jeanette would share this information with anyone, let alone James. However, he didn't consider it wise to provoke Rose. Pregnant women were notoriously touchy; add that to Rose's already volatile temper...  
  
"Anyway," added Rose, "I had a detention with Longbottom the other day - don't you hate how _disappointed_ he gets? - and Redding came in. If they're not screwing I'll _eat_ this baby. Anyway, I pretended to be diligently writing my lines. Honestly? Lines? Listened in, of course. Redding said you were set to rival Malfoy in Potions if you kept up your level of effort. Which I don't believe for a second, but you have to be pretty good at Potions to survive NEWT level. Better than me, anyway."  
  
"Breathe," advised Albus. Rose scowled. "What's the point?"  
  
"I need you to brew me a potion," said Rose.   
  
"Isn't it a bit early for morning sickness?" said Albus. "How far along are you?"  
  
"Ten weeks," said Rose shortly. "Give or take. And not that kind of potion, doofus."  
  
"What, then?" Albus grew a little impatient at being gratuitously insulted in the name of rendering a favour.  
  
Rose turned pale. " _The_ potion," she said. Sick realisation hit Albus just as Rose confirmed it, using the name Albus had only heard whispered about at dinner parties and behind hands. "Abortion Lotion."  
  
+++  
  
Albus rubbed his scratchy eyes and yawned. The knowledge sat before him like a great fat toad, but he refused to recognise it. _Not yet_. The next book, the next parchment, might yet yield the information he needed.   
  
He might not have to ask Scorpius for help.  
  
In the week since they'd fought, they hadn't spoken. Albus hadn't so much as looked in Scorpius' direction, although he always knew exactly which one it was. Rose provided a welcome and ample distraction from his own troubles. She'd taken to hovering around places she knew Albus would be - never close enough to suggest to a passerby that she was there on purpose to meet him, but always in the corner of his eye.   
  
She was nearly frantic with worry, and Albus now knew why. The Abortion Lotion's efficacy was limited to the first twelve weeks of pregnancy. He had exactly one week left to find instructions, ingredients and a place to brew it before it was too late.   
  
Rose's hysteria affected him to the degree that he'd started dreaming about babies at night. Always babies, though; never slippery buckets of blood, which was the intended result of the Abortion Lotion. It struck Albus as odd, but he had no concern to spare for the inaccuracy of his subconscious.  
  
In the end, it was Scorpius who came to Albus - although 'ambushed' was a better term. Scorpius stepped around a bookshelf, startling Albus into dropping the slim pickings he'd gleaned from the library's poor selection of magical obstetrics books.   
  
"Is there something I should know?" Scorpius raised his eyebrow and nudged _What to Expect When You're Expecting_ with his shoe.   
  
"No," snapped Albus. "I'm just - doing research."  
  
Scorpius' eyebrows crawled into his hairline. "Let me simplify it for you," he said. "When a boy and a girl love each other very much..."  
  
"Or a boy and a boy," flashed Albus. Scorpius went very still.  
  
"Well, that makes it a little more difficult," he said, after a pause. His voice shook, but he held it steady. "But with love and magic, anything's possible."  
  
"Your talents are wasted here," Albus told him. "You should go into the greeting cards business."  
  
"I was thinking the same," said Scorpius. "I could take out shares in the 'I'm Sorry' section."  
  
"Bit of a waste of money, I reckon," said Albus.  
  
"Why do you say that?" Scorpius' eyes pinned Albus'. Albus looked away first, coughing on a dry throat.  
  
"Considering I've already forgiven you, I mean," he said.  
  
"Albus -" began Scorpius, voice filled with unspeakable emotion. Albus held up a hand.  
  
"Not scot-free," said Albus. "I need your help."  
  
"Anything," said Scorpius. "Anything, I swear I'll do it."  
  
"Break up with Hugo?" suggested Albus, only half-joking. Scorpius frowned.  
  
"But I already did," he said. " _Ages_ ago, when he started dissing you." Albus stared. "He was a bit pissed off - what? I thought you knew."  
  
"I didn't," said Albus. He forestalled any more talk by pushing _Baby Talk: A Wizard-Infant Dictionary_ into Scorpius' hands.   
  
"But seriously," said Scorpius, "who'd you knock up?"  
  
+++  
  
"It's fine!" Scorpius snapped, batting Albus' hands away from the knife. "We don't have time to cut everything into equal sizes."  
  
"Sorry for trying to _follow the recipe_ ," panted Albus. The belching potion's fumes were doing all sorts of funky things to his sinuses.  
  
"Artistic license," said Scorpius briefly, sprinkling the ginkgo with a liberal hand. It looked more finger-painting than Matisse, but Albus was sick of arguing.  
  
Scorpius' stash of semi-legal books, courtesy of his criminally-minded parents, were a treasure trove of information when it came to brewing wholly illegal potions. Only registered Healers were supposed to dispense misoprostine rapidis, presumably because of the threat of misuse. Even with the shortcut Albus had taken by stealing the starting base from Healer Bilharzia, there were still several steps to be taken to render it active, each as intricate as a minuet. Needless to say, the concentration and effort involved was fraying more than one temper.  
  
"There," said Scorpius, his voice laced with exhaustion. "Half an hour on the boil, and it's ready."  
  
Albus didn't even have the energy to praise a deity. He sunk into a hammock and pressed his hand over his eyes. It was a good thing Rambo and the twins were so delighted to have Albus and Scorpius make up - otherwise, they might have questioned their need to use the Clubhouse exclusively for seven consecutive days.  
  
A minute later, Scorpius joined him. He stunk of sulphur.   
  
Albus lifted his arm so Scorpius could tuck his head into Albus' shoulder. Scorpius' elbow stuck him in the side; Albus shifted away and ended up nose to nose with Scorpius.  
  
"Hi," said Albus, feeling a little silly.  
  
"Hey," said Scorpius, his voice much huskier than usual. Albus abruptly ran out of comebacks, except 'Hi', which was already dated. He settled on smiling. Scorpius didn't smile back. By contrast, his eyes went hooded; he looked almost angry.  
  
"It's okay," said Albus, seeing the warning signs of a fit of rage, although without understanding the reason for it. "Keep cool, yeah?"  
  
"With you around?" Scorpius sounded strangled.   
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Albus tried to wriggle into a more upright position, but Scorpius' hands pinned him. "Hello? Ow?"  
  
"I'm not hurting you," Scorpius dismissed this contribution. His fingers flexed around Albus' arms. Albus lost the last breath in his lungs. Scorpius, too, was breathing heavily.   
  
Albus felt their chests swell and sink, brushing gently, for long moments before Scorpius dipped his head and kissed him.  
  
It was the barest and lightest of bare light touches. A quick rasp of drywarm skin and Scorpius was gone, burying his head in Albus' neck with a moan.  
  
"Sorry," he mumbled.   
  
Tentatively, Albus raised his hand and folded it across Scorpius' neck. He stroked the short hairs there against the grain, marvelling at how they were sharp and soft at the same time. Scorpius froze at the contact, although a tremble ran through his body. Albus could feel it everywhere they touched, which was everywhere. Something hot and deep pulsed in Albus' belly, snatching the air from his mouth as soon as he breathed it; leaving him panting.  
  
Scorpius raised his head and stared into Albus' face. Albus kept his hand on Scorpius' neck, despite the heat he saw in Scorpius' eyes. It confused and scared him, but he dug his fingers through the fine buttery strands and tugged Scorpius' head down. This time, he didn't let Scorpius break the kiss.  
  
Slippery lips slid open. Scorpius choked on another moan and shoved his tongue into Albus' mouth. Distantly, Albus thought Scorpius should have been a better kisser; but he didn't care. He was too busy forcing his own tongue up against Scorpius, a shuddering lethargy engulfing him as he did so. His limbs fell lax and open around Scorpius, who by contrast was all fire and restless movement. He licked into Albus' mouth, over and around his tongue, and shoved his hand up Albus' jumper. It was cold, and too fast too soon. Albus arched into the touch.  
  
"Oh god," mumbled Scorpius into Albus' mouth. He pressed a sticky line of kisses along Albus' jaw. "I've wanted to do this for _so long_."  
  
Albus wanted to clip him around the ear for sitting on that piece of information all this time, but he wanted Scorpius' mouth more. He made a needy little noise to alert Scorpius to this fact, squeezing his hip for emphasis. Which was when Rose walked in.  
  
+++  
  
"If I'd known you'd finally got your act together with Malfoy," said Rose, lighting a cigarette, "I would have knocked."  
  
"You shouldn't smoke," said Albus automatically. "It's bad for the baby."  
  
Rose blew a smoke ring. "It won't _be_ a baby very soon, if you've done your bit. In fact, it never was. Just a bunch of cells."  
  
"Yeah, whatever," said Albus. This wasn't the first time Rose had brought up this - faintly erroneous - argument, but Albus was a little distracted right now. He kept touching his jaw, feeling the roughened skin there. Every time he did it Rose smirked; but to her credit, passed no remarks.  
  
Albus pressed his swollen, sensitive mouth. Rose finished the cigarette and lit another from the cherry.   
  
"So?" she said at last. Albus shook himself out of his daze.  
  
"It's ready," he said. "We finished it just before - uh. You can take it whenever you want. Now, if you like. We got towels and things ready, and some volumiser."  
  
"Volumiser?" echoed Rose.  
  
"To replace the blood you'll lose," explained Albus. "And you'll probably need to take tomorrow off school. Fake a sickness."  
  
"Period pain," said Rose, with grim humour. "Scorpius won't tell?"  
  
"No." Albus didn't say he'd trust Scorpius with his life; Rose didn't ask.  
  
At length, she heaved a sigh. "I suppose it's now or never."  
  
"For this, anyway." Rose turned a questioning look on Albus. "You could keep it, you know. Adopt it out. Something."  
  
"Yeah," said Rose, "something."  
  
After a minute, she put her head on his shoulder. After another minute, Albus cupped his hand around her rough head. The smoke from Rose's cigarette billowed into the chilly dusk. They sat in the courtyard for a long, long time.  
  
+++  
  
 _fast-forward_  
  
Hugo carried the lace-swathed bundle. His face, when he looked at his nephew, was that of ice melting. He'd even forgiven Rose for not telling him about the pregnancy until she went into labour in the Gryffindor common room. Robes disguised a bump exceedingly well.  
  
(Rose's screaming gave Albus an earache for days, and she dislocated his little finger when the head came through. There were never any apologies for either, nor for forcing Albus to witness the birth firsthand - with blood and guts galore - while Aunt Hermione was banished to the waiting room.  
  
"Don't name it after me," warned Albus. "There's enough of that in this family. Let him start his own legend."  
  
Rose stuck her head out the window to smoke, despite having been caught and reprimanded twice before. The baby squawked in its bassinette. "Oh, shut up," said Rose irritably. "God, it sounds like Mac already."  
  
"Don't," said Albus.  
  
"I wasn't going to," said Rose.)  
  
"Thank you for coming to our little cele - celery - party," hiccupped Uncle Ron. Aunt Hermione snapped her fan so hard it hit him on the nose. Uncle Ron shook his head, apparently not able to locate the source of his distress. "We're welcoming a new ad-d-d - _member_ of our family. A small one." He giggled.  
  
"Oh, for the love of Merlin," snapped Hugo. He snatched the microphone out of Uncle Ron's hands, jiggling the baby into the crook of one arm. The baby let out a peal of disapproval at such cavalier treatment, and Hugo gave it a finger to suck. Behind him, Rose stubbed out a cigarette into her mother's plate of toffee slices.   
  
Hugo wasn't looking at the crowd, not even at Albus holding Scorpius' hand, as he said in a wash of static, "This is Wilbur Weasley." He was smiling, and looking down.


End file.
